


The End of Winter

by LittleWolfBird



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya Stark - Freeform, F/M, Fix It Fic, Gen, How It COULD Have Ended, Jon Snow - Freeform, Lady Stark - Freeform, Lady of Winterfell, Sandor Clegane - Freeform, Sansa Stark - Freeform, Show!Verse, Tormund Giantsbane - Freeform, Torsan, WIP, Work In Progress, sansa x Tormund, sansa x sandor - Freeform, sansa/sandor - Freeform, sansa/tormund, sansan, slow posting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26650024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleWolfBird/pseuds/LittleWolfBird
Summary: The battle for the Dawn has ended. Winterfell is all but destroyed. Those who are still living emerge from the snow drifts. Sansa, Lady of Winterfell, is recovering from her injuries. Jon is commanding while she is abed. Daenerys is ready to move on. Sandor must leave.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Tormund Giantsbane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 67
Kudos: 109





	1. Chapter 1

When she emerged from the crypts, on shaky legs and in a tattered dress, she almost expected the sun to be shining. But it wasn’t. It was still dark, grey. They, the women, the children, the feeble, had been down below for what could have been weeks. She had lost count after day nine. With no visible sky, it was hard to keep track of the hour. Now, because she could see across the yard, Sansa knew it to be day. The snow still fell heavily as it had when they had entered the crypts when the war horns had blown their third blast.

_“Quickly now!” she urged, striding around Winterfell, striding around her home. “Take your last moment things. Gather the food set aside for this migration.”_

_Rounding the corner, she saw a soldier, a Vale knight by the looks of him though he carried no standard to identify himself with, emerging from the broom closet that had been assigned to hold food for the crypts. His arms were full of loaves of wrapped bread. Sansa’s step faltered for only a heartbeat before she found her voice._

_“Put the provisions back, soldier,” she ordered._

_The man stopped and looked at her, but his smile grew. “What is Littlefinger’s Bitch going to do to stop me?”_

_Sansa’s countenance hardened and her stride didn’t falter. “I shall repeat myself only this once, put the provisions back, soldier.”_

_The man laughed and spit at her. The glob landed on Sansa’s cheek before sliding down and landing on her shoulder. Sansa swallowed. She looked down at her shoulder then back to the soldier. A blur from the corner of her eye had the man pinned against the wall and the loaves toppling to the floor._

_“I do believe the Lady of Winterfell instructed you to put back what is not yours,” Arya hissed with her dagger at his throat. “What does my Lady wish for me to do with this thief?”_

_Sansa stared at the growing fear in the man’s eyes. “Let him go. He will put the bread back and then go to the front lines, where he has been reassigned.”_

_“You can’t do that! You’re not mt commander!” the man yelled._

_Arya pressed her knife point into his gullet just hard enough to knick him._

_“If you recall,” Sansa replied calmly, “When my half-brother abdicated the throne to the Targaryen queen, I became the Lady of Winterfell. Though Jon remains commander and has the training and experience in matters of warfare that I never will, I am_ his _commander. Put the bread back, soldier, and take your place in the front. And pray to the Old Gods for the strength to survive. I will also pray for you.”_

_Arya released the man by stepping back and sheathing her dagger in one motion. The man spared no time in carefully playing the food where he had taken them from and took off running down the hall. When the sound of his footsteps receded, Arya started laughing._

_“Well I’m glad I came to find you when I did!”_

_“I appreciate your help,” Sansa responded as she picked up burlap sacks and began filling them with the closet’s contents. “Though I could have handled it on my own.”_

_“Sure,” Arya shrugged, “you’ve gotten quite good with that blade of yours. But why get your hands dirty when you can have no one appear out of nowhere and do the work for you? It shows your strength.”_

_Sansa chuckled, “your timing is impeccable, I’ll give you that. Why did you come find me?”_

_Arya sat a full sack out of the way and held open the next one for Sansa as she spoke, “Jon has a handful of us out looking for you.”_

_“What does he need?” Sansa paused, thinking. No, she couldn’t think of something that hadn’t been completed. She’d worked with little sleep the past weeks to make sure that when the time came, the fighters – both men and women – could focus on just that: fighting. “I’ve done everything he’s suggested.”_

_“Aye,” Arya replied, “You have. But he says it’s time to close the crypts.”_

_“I can’t, not yet!” Sansa hissed, moving faster. “I have to make sure those who need to be down there are there. I have to finish getting these supplies moved down there. All of the pitch has already been stored down there. If we ration correctly, we’ll have light for a long while. The wine has been moved down there as well. The Well that was tapped from the hot springs has been flowing without issue. I need to—”_

_Arya cut Sansa off by placing her hand over Sansa’s. The elder sisters’ were trembling as she hurried to complete her tasks. Sansa let out a shaky breath and paused her work._

_“Jon knew all of that,” she said softly. “At the second horn blast, he had soldiers go and complete those tasks. The castle has been searched. If anyone was missed, it is their fault. You just happened to find the one closet yet to be emptied.”_

_“They left enough rations for the fighters to be sustained?” Sansa asked, her blue eyes shining._

_“Yes, we’ll be set for months. Just like you planned.”_

_Sansa only nodded. She chewed on her lip as she let her guard down, in those rare moments where it was only the two of them._

_“Wolf Bitch I— I see you’ve found the Little Bird,” the low, raspy voice growled._

_Sansa turned away to face the closet and hastily wiped at her eyes._

_Arya stood to shield Sansa from the Hound’s gaze. “Aye, we’re just gathering the last of the supplies to take down.”_

_“So that’s what the cunt who ran into me was muttering about, ‘Baelish’s whore’ and all that shit.”_

_“She’s not—!"_

_“I know what she’s not, Wolf Bitch,” the Hound growled. “Start taking these sacks down then find the Commander. He’s got instructions for you.”_

_“I don’t take orders from you—”_

_“Arya!” Sansa hissed, standing and wiping off the dust from her knees. She could see the non-knight roll his eyes at her being the ever-perfect lady. “Do as he says. I’ll be right behind you. He can carry more sacks that you.”_

_Arya glanced at her sister’s face, for a confirmation that it was okay to be left alone with the younger Clegane brother, before picking up two sacks and silently disappearing down the dark hallway._

_“I brought your cloak,” he said, holding out the dark green material. “And your satchel that you had packed.”_

_“You were in my chamber?” Sansa asked, scrunching her brows together, studying his face._

_“Just looking for you like your brother said to.”_

_“Why did he send you?”_

_“He sent a lot of people. But he figured I might know where to look for you.”_

_Sansa scoffed, “so you both think that I’d be hiding in my chamber like a scared little child?”_

_He barked out a laugh, “’course not, you daft woman.”_

_Sansa bristled at the that._

_“Calm that red hair of yours,” he sighed, “I knew you wouldn’t be there. I knew that you’d be probably doing exactly what you’re doing and that you’d forget about yourself and your personal provisions. It’s getting colder out there. You’ll need everything you can get.”_

_With no response, Sansa only nodded and accepted the cloak from his hands. As she pulled it around his shoulders and fastened the ties around her, her non-ser pushed her out of the not ungently to finish filling the last few provisions._

_“Sandor?” she asked, finally finding her voice._

_The giant of a man kneeling before her froze at his name._

_“Sandor?” she asked again._

_“Never said my name before, Little Bird.”_

_Her lips twitched up at the name. “We might not survive this battle. I figure propriety is not warranted at the moment.”_

_“Propriety is never warranted.”_

_“So you believe,” she did smile then._

_Sandor tied the bag and turned around, standing up without facing her. She caught his wrist, pulling to make him look at her._

_“Are you scared?” she whispered._

_“I’ve seen plenty of battles before, Little Bird.”_

_“That doesn’t mean you’re not scared.”_

_“Are you scared?”_

_“I’m terrified.”_

_“’t’s a good thing you’ll be in the crypts then, huh?”_

_“What if they get through?” she blurted, her fears coming from deep inside her where she had been repressing them. “We should have had a small squad of soldiers down in the crypts with us. What if…what if you die and…”_

_“and?” Sandor prompted after she had fallen silent for a few moments. “What if we die and…?”_

_“No,” Sansa shook her head. She roughly took her satchel from his shoulder, suddenly angry with herself._

_Sandor caught her chin and forced her to look up at him. “No, what Little Bird? If you’re going to chirp, get it out.”_

_Sansa swallowed, “What if_ you _die? Who will keep me safe then?”_

_“You’ll find someone, Little Bird. Some handsome knight.” There was a hint of teasing in his tone that Sansa smiled at. They both knew that her dreams of handsome knights had ended a long, long time ago. His lips twitched in a smile before turning away and began picking up the sacks._

_“Sandor?”_

_“If you don’t get your ass moving, Little Bird,” he growled at her, turning to glare, “I’ll throw you over my shoulder like one of these sacks and carry the Queen of Winterfell down to the crypts in the most unladylike manner this realm has ever seen.”_

_“I just have one request for—” her voice caught in her throat. “What did you call me?”_

_“The Queen of Winterfell,” he replied while holding her gaze. His gray eyes smoldered, and Sansa had to fight to keep her breath even._

_“Why?” she breathed._

_“It’s the truth. Just no one’s had the guts to proclaim it yet cause you’re a woman.”_

_“You think I could be queen?”_

_“You already are, Little Bird. You’ve done more without the title than others have fully crowned. I would know, I’ve seen a fair share of them in my time.”_

_“I…thank you,” she said, giving his wrist a squeeze; she had still not let it go._

_“Chirp chirp. You had a request?”_

_She nodded, “Keep Arya safe for me? Please?”_

_Sandor barked, throwing his head back. “The Wolf Bitch doesn’t need me to save her hide. She does a good job of that herself.”_

_“I know,” Sansa dropped her hand and wrung her fingers together. “But it’s always safer to have someone.”_

_“Do you have someone?” he asked so softly she almost didn’t catch it._

_“Y-yes, I do,” Sansa said looking up into his eyes directly, “but he will be up top, fighting. I will have to hold my own in the crypts if the doors fail. I will draw strength on the two of you having each other.”_

_“Little Bird…” he warned._

_Sansa wiped her eyes again and steeled her back. “I know you won’t accept a token and I have to ribbons to give you anyways. Will you at least leave me with a real kiss to remember you by?”_

_Sandor studied her face, looking for the lies he could sniff out. But she knew that there were none for him to find. Finally, he asked, “a real one?”_

_“In the Vale,” she muttered, looking down at her hands again, “I dreamed that you had kissed me before you left me with your bloody cloak. Your kiss was where I disappeared to when Peter’s hands roamed, and I had to kiss him or when Harry did his duty.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because,” she replied, “You were always a better man than any of them. You protected me instead of using me.”_

_“No,” Sandor snapped. “Why did you keep the cloak?”_

_His hand lifted the hood of her green cloak and rubbed the material between his fingers. Sansa had dyed the stained white cloak to as close of a green color as she could get from her memory of his jerkin. Because he was so much taller than her and more than twice as wide as well, Sansa had folded it in half. The cloak, with a large hood that could conceal her head entirely, still reached down to her ankles. When the first snow had hit the Vale, Sansa had added sheepskin and a beaver hair lining to make it warmer. When Jon’s friend Tormund, the Wildling, had presented her with a bear pelt and several fox furs as a gift for the ‘Woman Kissed by Fire’, Sansa had added the bear pelt to the cloak and a fox fur to the hood; with the left over fox fur and an additional beaver hair pelt, Sansa had made liners for her boots and gloves for her hands._

_“I wanted, no I needed something of yours. And Cersei would not provide me with material to make new clothes that fit me. Having your cloak allowed me to have strength when no one else knew what it meant. It’s the first thing I grab when I have to flee wherever it is that I am staying.”_

_“Yet tonight it is not the first thing you went for?”_

_“I would not have gone down to the crypts without getting it first.”_

_“Silly bird,” he huffed, letting go of the hood and running his dry, cracked knuckles along her cheek._

_She caught his hand, flattening his palm against her cheek. She leaned into his touch and closed her eyes. If this were all she would get from him, then she would savor every feel._

_“Never been much of a kisser,” he grumbled._

_Sansa felt his breath on her face. He was close. Then his hand slid from her cheek back to cup her head. His arm slid under the cloak and around her him to her back. Sandor pulled her towards him, nearly lifting her off the stone floor as his lips crashed onto hers._

Shouts shook Sansa from her daze. Her grip tightened around the hilt of the short sword that she held loosely in her hand. Men ran past her. She followed their path with her eyes and saw that something was on fire. They were throwing buckets of snow and water on the flames. On the other side, men were digging in and moving stones from a collapsed wall. In front of her, the dead were starting to be lined up. So many snow drifts were pink from the blood of the fallen. As she looked down, Sansa saw that she wasn’t standing in only mud. Guts and crushed bones squished under her boots. Weary and unable to remain standing, Sansa sunk to her knees as tears streamed down her face. Her home was in ruins. From her spot, so much of the castle had been devastated. So many lives had been lost. She was the Lady who had allowed Winterfell to be destroyed.

“Sansa!”

The movement of someone running towards her had Sansa jumping to her feet and raising her sword and lashing out, a guttural scream ripping from her throat.

Her lunge was easily parried and she was too tired to counter strike before her legs gave out and she was caught by her attacker. Her sword fell from her hands to the slush around them. She’d fought her best she’d saved as many as she could. But she had ultimately failed. It would be nice to rest with the Gods now…

“Sansa!” the voice shook her body. “Sansa, Sansa!”

“Jon?” she mumbled.

“Yes! It’s over! Sansa we’ve won! What happened?” Jon demanded, “We went to the crypts to tell you of the news—”

“So many dead,” she mumbled.

“How did they get inside?”

Sansa shook her head. “They came from inside.”

“What?”

Sansa could feel his fingers tracing around her skin. The tears in her dress.

“Sansa, what happened to you? You need a maester. You need to be tended to. You are hurt.”

“I need to find my cloak,” she mumbled.

“That’s not important right now!” Jon growled.

“Yes it is!” she screamed. Sansa took Jon by surprise and managed to push him away. She stumbled as she turned about, looking for the entrance to the crypts again. _My cloak…_ The pain that shot up from her leg then had her falling forwards as she screamed. Her arms caught her in the mud – Gods she hoped it was only mud – but pain erupted in her arm now too.

Jon was kneeling next to her in an instant, picking her up. “Sansa, it’s over,” he murmured as he pulled the scarf from around his neck, “you don’t have to keep fighting anymore.” Jon wrapped the scarf tightly around her wrist before tying it into a sling behind her neck. He began squeezing her arms and moving her joints. “What else hurts?” he asked softly.

The snow was soaking into Sansa’s dress. Even her seal skin leggings were turning cold. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

When Jon touched her ankle, she yelped, and he stopped. “hopefully just a sprain. Maybe a break, if you won’t even let me touch it. We need to get you to a room so we can get you fully examined.”

“I need my cloak,” she whimpered as Jon stood, bringing her with him. He scooped her into his arms. With the breeze on her face, Sansa knew that he was moving, but she couldn’t say where.

“Jon,” she protested weakly.

“Sansa be reasonable!” he insisted.

“My cloak.”

Jon groaned and stopped walking. “Bruthwell!” he shouted.

“Yes m’lord?”

Sansa’s head rolled to the side and cracked her eyes. Bruthwell was no older than she, scrawny, with a scabbed over slash across his face. He was standing at attention, with bad posture, waiting for Jon to continue.

“Go to the crypts. Tell the soldiers helping the survivors out to look for Lady Stark’s Evergreen cloak. Do you know which I am speaking of?”

“Yes sir!” he exclaimed.

“Bring it to the main keep when it is found.”

“Right away m’lord!”

“I’m taking the Lady Stark to a private chamber, if my assistance is requested for anything.”

“Yes m’lord!” Bruthwell exclaimed then scrambled away.

Sansa closed her eyes again. She couldn’t for the life of her remember what she had done with it.

“They’ll find it, Sansa,” Jon whispered as he continued walking. He had a slight limp to his gait but made no mention of it.

Silence passed the trek inside until the snow stopped falling on them and Jon’s boots echoed on the stone walls. Sansa had to know, “Jon?”

“We’ll find you a secure private chamber. We’ll get a maester or a woods witch to look at your injuries. While they treat you, you _will_ answer my questions. And then you can sleep until you regain your strength. You don’t need to worry about anything else right now.”

“Jon how bad…”

“You’ll live. I don’t see any injury you can’t recover from.”

“No, the castle?”

“Oh…” Jon walked in silence. Then, “it’s not pretty. The dragons didn’t help anything.” Jon kept talking but Sansa’s heart clenched at the thought of dragon fire and Sandor… “Surprisingly their fire breath spared much of the castle. The old Broken Tower was melted down, but that was it.”

Sansa gasped for breath.

Jon froze. “Sansa? Can you breathe?”

“Not a lot of fire?” she repeated.

After a moment, Jon nodded as understanding donned on him. “Not a lot of fire,” he confirmed. The destruction was mostly from the beasts flying or falling into the stone. Even then it was mostly the tallest parts of the keep. Falling stones however caused a lot of damage. The outer bailey will need to be repaired. But the inner wall is intact.” Jon continued detailing the destruction as he knew it as they continued further into the castle.

Sansa drifted in and out of consciousness until Jon lowered her onto a bed covered in furs. She opened herself and found that she was in her parent’s old room. A knife twisted in her gut. She sat up, grunting as she did so. “No, Jon, I can’t.”

Jon pushed her shoulder gently, forcing her to lay back down. “Yes, Sansa. This is the only room in the keep with a locking door that befits the Lady.”

“I told you when we returned, I can’t take their chamber.”

“And I am telling you now, sweet sister,” Jon replied as be began to cut off her boots with his knife, “you have no choice. Your old chamber is not useable right now. You should have taken this room when I abdicated to Daenerys. You’ve gained the respect of so many of the Vale and the Riverlands, and most importantly the North. But to solidify your hold you need to be _seen_ as the Lady of Winterfell, eldest heir to King Robb and Lord Eddard, the Warden of the North before him. Residing in their chambers symbolizes you moving into their place. It’s important. So please, accept that this is now your room.”

Jon finished cutting off one boot and began working on the other when Arya burst into the room.

“For fuck’s sake Sansa!” she exclaimed. “What the hell did you do! I couldn’t find you among the emerging crypt dwellers as they moved into the great hall!”

“Something happened down there, Arya,” Jon replied, watching Sansa’s scrunched up face as he pulled her boot from her ankle.

“Clearly! The numbers that came up are far less than the numbers we sent down!” Arya stopped next to the bed, demanding, “And how did you get injured?”

“We’ll get answers from her soon enough, Arya.”

“Like hell we will!”

“Please!” Jon said, raising his voice. “Arya go find a maester. Sansa has cuts to be stitched and a broken arm to set. Her ankle is in bad shape too. Bring some wood for the hearth and some food if you can.”

“No, the people need to be fed,” Sansa protested.

“You clearly think so,” Jon snapped, “your dress, where it is still in one piece, hangs on you like father’s tunic hung around Robb when we were little. You’ve hollowed out. You will eat.”

“I’ll stuff it down your throat if I have to,” Arya agreed, tucking a lock of Sansa’s hair behind her ear and out of her face. She turned to leave but Sansa grabbed her arm with her good hand.

“No maester,” she whispered.

“Yes, you are getting a maester!” Jon growled.

But Sansa wasn’t paying any attention to her brother. Her eyes pleaded with Arya and after a moment, the younger sister softened her face and nodded.

“Arya, get a maester,” Jon ordered.

“No, Jon,” she said turning to him. “I am going to get a woods witch. If you bring a maester in here to do anything other than to treat _your_ wounds, remember, that I will stick you with the pointy end.”

Jon and Arya stared at each other for a moment before he nodded, conceding. “Hurry,” was all he said.

Arya swept from the room silently.

“She doesn’t look hurt,” Sansa mumbled.

“Probably scratches and bruises,” Jon agreed. “I don’t know anyone who didn’t come away with some sort of injury.”

“How many did we lose?”

“Too many,” Jon admitted. “I haven’t been able to count. But Davos is working on it.”

“What about S…?” Sansa winced and groaned as Jon pulled her arm down from the make-shift sling.

A light knock on the door was immediately followed by it bursting open and slamming against the wall behind it. A huge man filled the frame. And Sansa felt the weight on her chest release. She took a breath, nodding. Tears ran down from her eyes.

“Clegane,” Jon said, his voice changing over from brother to commander with ease as he stood to shield Sansa and her disarray of clothing from his view, “this is inappropriate.”

“Leave him be, Jon,” she replied finding her energy drained.

“It’s not proper,” he muttered in reply.

Sandor laughed and Sansa smiled sadly.

“Sandor’s seen me with far less covering me.”

“How?” Jon demanded, turning around to stare at her, shocked at the familiarity of names between them.

 _Oh the things I wish I would tell you_ , she thought. Instead she said the only explanation anyone needed, “Joffery.”

Jon ground his teeth but stood aside, nonetheless. “What is it Clegane?”

“The crypts are empty of the living,” he grunted. “They’re pulling out the dead now.”

“Why?” Jon demanded. “What killed so many of them?”

Sandor nodded down to Sansa who couldn’t pull her eyes away from his blood crusted face. “They all keep saying, “m’lady, ask m’lady” or “Sansa”. No one’s gotten a straight answer out of them yet.”

“Sansa?” Jon asked, looking down on her with concern.

She shook her head, her lip trembling. Sandor nodded but Jon huffed to show his irritation. “You’ll talk to me soon.”

“Not now,” she whispered.

“Anything else, Clegane?”

Sandor nodded and held up her green cloak. “A woman brought it up. She and her babe were wrapped in it. I traded my cloak for hers. Figured the Little Bird might be wanting this back.”

Sansa nodded as he draped it over her body.

He pulled away faster than Sansa would have liked and said, “What’s this about the Wolf Bitch shouting to find a Heilerin or a Woods Witch?”

“Sansa won’t allow a maester to tend to her,” Jon explained, shooting a glare at his sister.

“Ah,” Sandor nodded. He understood. He always had. “I’ll go grab the wine to boil and see if I can find any clean linens. Might as well grab some of that thread of yours, Little Bird, from your old room to see to that forehead of yours.”

“You’re not tending to her,” Jon replied, ice dripping into is voice.

“Not for me, you snowy bastard,” Sandor growled. “The Heilerin or whoever the little wolf bitch finds will be able to work faster if she doesn’t have to go get her own supplies. Keep her warm and awake, Snow, she’s in shock.”

Sandor turned on his heel and strode away with purpose.

Sansa watched him go and kept her eyes on the doorway while Jon continued to cut away at the scraps that remained of her dress. No, she wouldn’t sleep now. She wanted to see Sandor again. Just once, if that’s all the Gods allowed.


	2. Chapter 2

She woke in the middle of the night – or was it day? Sansa wasn’t even sure what hour it had been when she had succumbed to the sleep tea she had been given – to movement in her room. No, she reminded herself as she licked her lips, it was her parent’s room.

“Aye, might be their room, Little Bird,” a voice answered her, much to her surprise, “but they’ve been dead for years now, haven’t they?”

“Sandor?” Sansa wondered.

He snorted and then his shape was illuminated but the sudden roar of the fire in the hearth.

“Sandor, that’s too big,” she muttered, realizing she could not sit herself up to better look at her visitor. Her stomach hurt…no, _everything_ hurt. But she had to protect him, so she said, “What are you doing? “The fire!”

“Was making my rounds,” he explained, ignoring her completely as he had when she was younger. “The Wolf Bitch told me when the Woodswitch finally got you to sleep to check on you while I was on patrol. Sh’said that you ordered everyone out while you slept. Guess she wanted to blame me if you died in your sleep. So I check in at the beginning and end of my shift. Saw that your fire was out. You need to stay warm, Little Bird.”

“No, save the wood for the soldiers for when they come in from patrols,” she ordered with as much authority as she could.

He only snorted again. “That’s not going to happen, Little Bird. There’d be no soldiers if you die of chills.”

“Why didn’t you get a servant to stoke the coals? You hate fire.” Sansa wondered, too exhausted to fight him. He was a soldier, bread from a young age, so very young. He was used to fighting for his life for weeks on end and still having to do his duties when the battle was over. He could function on so little sleep with injuries while she— “Sandor!”

He rose slowly from his knees and turned his head towards her. “I’ve never heard you use my name so many times.”

“Your injuries,” she demanded, pressing on.

“What of them?”

“You shouldn’t be on patrol! You need to rest.”

“Aye, but so does every other man under your banner. We all do our part to lighten the load.”

“How bad are you…”

He laughed, “Don’t worry that pretty head of yours over a dog like me, Little Bird.”

Sansa clenched her jaw and forced herself to pull herself up against the headboard. Her arm and ribs protested angrily but she had to show some strength. Even if a peep of pain slipped unbidden between her lips. And a tear trickled out of the corner of her eye. Neither escaped Sandor’s notice.

“Lay down, Little Bird, don’t pop your stitches.”

Sansa collapsed in the half upright position she had managed. Angrily she growled, “Light a candle if you’re so unafraid of the flame now and bring it to the side table. I will inspect you myself of your wounds.”

Sandor did as he was told. As he crossed the room, he chuckled, “Does the Little Bird mean to play my nurse maid?”

“No, but she does expect you to lie about your injuries.”

Sandor froze as he pulled his hand away from the candlestick holder, now resting on the table. His eyes flashed. “I don’t lie.”

“Then why hide the truth from me?”

The small flame caused the shadows on his old scars to dance around. He seemed more mysterious, calmer even, to her. And when he spoke, she was unable to look away from his lips, “My Lady needn’t worry about a dog. Focus on your own recovery.”

“Don’t do that!” she exclaimed. Her voice echoed off the stone, louder than she had intended. It hurt her throat, and her chest, and her ribs. Softer she added, “I order you to stop calling yourself a dog.”

“Once a dog, always a dog.”

“No,” Sansa shook her head, though that caused the room to spin. Nevertheless, she pressed on. “I don’t believe that. You ceased to be the Hound the night you left me your cloak. I still don’t know what happened to you after my sister left you for dead until you rode through the gates behind Jon and the Dragon Queen, but whatever _did_ happen to you, it has changed you.”

Sandor stood above her, watching her.

“Kneel,” she commanded. “You call me Your Lady, yet you forget that we are equal. I cannot stand to put us on even footing now. And holding my head up like this is tiring me faster than I’d like. Please kneel.”

“I can’t do that, Little Bird.”

“You can and you will. Your Little Bird orders it.”

“If I kneel on the floor again, it would take that giant your bastard brother is friends with to get me up again. Getting up from stoking the coals was work enough.”

“Are you that wounded?” Sansa whispered, fear growing in her chest. He didn’t look to be in pain. Perhaps he knew how to mask it well. He stood straight and strong, as he had always done; one hand on the sword at his hip and the other at his side, ready for any action. She noticed that he wore no cloak and his scarf hung loose around his neck.

“No, my Little Bird. Just stiff,” he admitted. “The leg wound that the Wolf Bitch thought would kill me has only slowed me down, along with age. The strain of the battle has tired my thigh. Perhaps reinjured the muscles. Nothing that won’t heal.”

“Then sit.”

“I should be finishing my patrol.”

“I thought you were done?”

Sandor paused, “Aye, I am. But I should sleep at least a bit before the dawn breaks, even if the sun does not.”

“Is it still snowing?”

“The men, the Northmen, they claim the snow is lessening.”

“You don’t believe them?”

“The flakes might be smaller, and there may be an hour or two where no snow falls,” Sandor informed her, “but the oldest of the Northmen say that it could be just a change of the wind. That a new storm could be coming.”

“I had hoped that if, when, we defeated the Others, that winter would end quickly.” Sansa sighed, “False, misguided hope. A silly hope.”

“As if you could have known,” Sandor said. “No one knew what to expect if we defeated the frozen cunts.”

“If it still snows heavily, where is your cloak Sandor? You shouldn’t be out there without it.”

“Gave it to a woman and her babe in exchange for yours, remember?”

“My cloak?”

“They came from the crypts wrapped in it. Shivering, cold, scared thing she was. Couldn’t tell you if her babe was dead or alive. I gave her mine so that I could return yours. Glad I did too – you wouldn’t settle until I laid it on you.”

Sansa didn’t have a response to that.

“Tell me, Little Bird,” Sandor rasped in her silence, “why are you so instant on keeping that thing? Why were you nigh on hysterical for it?”

“I kept it because it was the only thing I had of you, when you left.” Sansa huffed, “I’ve told you this before!”

“But why were you hysterical for it _after_ the battle?”

Sansa looked down, away from the stone-grey eyes. She focused on the hand on his pommel. “I didn’t know if you were alive or dead. I wanted it as the only thing I have of you.”

“Silly Bird,” he muttered. He turned to leave, “Rest now, I’m sure your sister will be in soon enough.”

“Sandor!” she cried out.

He froze mid step, glancing over his shoulder to look at her.

“I feel safer with you in here with me.”

“The castle is safe, Little Bird.”

“Perhaps,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t change how I feel. Pull that chair over and sit next to my bedside.”

Sandor glared at her a moment before doing as he was told. He dragged over a chair – the chair that Sansa’s father had inhabited when her Lady Mother was in the confinement bed with Bran – and unbuckled the sword from his back and the sword at his hip. Suddenly he leaned over her and adjusted the pillow under her back so that it was more under her neck. It did help the ache in her side. Then he sank slowly into the chair with an almost imperceptible groan.

“There, is my Lady happy?” he said once he was settled and had stretched out his leg.

Sansa nodded, “Thank you, Sandor.”

“Should call me Clegane like everyone else, my Lady. It’s not proper.”

“Since when have you cared about propriety – especially with me!” Sansa laughed.

“Since I saw you again, waiting to greet your bastard brother and his queen.”

“And you sat ahorse, as tall and mighty as ever. Just like you did the first time you rode into Winterfell.”

“Aye,” he closed his eyes for a moment to remember. “That was a long time ago.”

“What’s changed?” she wondered. “Between us I mean.”

“You have a greater title than ever before.”

“Is Lady of Winterfell really more than Queen-to-be, Fiancée to the Crowned Prince, and later King? What about greater than Lady Lannister? What about greater than Lady Hardying, wife to the Lord of the Eyrie? All of these have been my titles.”

“Perhaps,” Sandor admitted, “but as Queen, you’d’ve held no power. Especially as Joffrey’s wife – he’d make sure of that. As wife to the Imp…well that’s not something to brings much respect, only pity. And that cunt Hardying, well I heard couldn’t even make it out of the Vale with you before dying at the hands of some clansmen.”

“I was never truly his wife, you know,” Sansa whispered. She studied Sandor’s face as it froze, then furled in confusion. “Lord Tyrion, we were wedded, yes,” she admitted.

“Stop, I don’t want to hear about your marriage,” Sandor growled. “T’was your Lannister marriage that nearly got me killed.”

It was Sansa’s turn to furl her brow. “My fault? How!”

“Aye, your fault. I got so pissing drunk at the news that I thought I could single handedly take on three of my brother’s men. If your sister hadn’t had been with me, they would have killed me right there in that inn.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Sandor, if you’d let me explain!”

“I don’t want to hear—”

“You will hear what I have to say,” Sansa snapped in the most unladylike manner. Sandor grinned. She continued, “I was married off to Tyrion at the Great Sept of Baelor, where they cut my father’s head off in front of my eyes. I was married off to Tyrion in the first new dress I had received since before my father’s death. Yes, I was married to Tyrion, but he never bedded me.”

Sandor’s eyes jumped to hers as he searched for the truth.

Sansa had promised herself when she saw Sandor Clegane riding into Winterfell, alive and well, that she would never try to lie to him again and that she’d never hide the truth from him either. So she said, “It was the only true kindness he showed me – letting me decide if and when I wanted to become his wife for true.”

“Now you’re going to tell me that Hardying too never fucked you too?” Sandor grumbled, his hands opening and closing into fists on his thighs.

Sansa’s gaze dropped. It was difficult talking about that part of her life. Almost more so than it was talking about King’s Landing. But this wasn’t just anyone. This was Sandor. He understood more than anyone what the capital had been like for her. He would be more likely to understand. And she had promised, only the honest truth. She whispered, “No, that would be a lie.”

Sandor remained silent, though Sansa could feel his eyes on her, encouraging her to continue, to say what was on her mind.

So she did, “Lord Baelish told me, after the Setpon’s had confirmed my maidenhead was still intact, and after my marriage was announced, that if I did not allow Harry to do his duty as my husband on my wedding night, then _he_ would make me Lady Hardying himself and provide me with little Haryding children.” Sansa shrugged; the decision had been a simple one for her to make. “I chose the lesser of two bad options.”

Still Sandor remind silent.

Perhaps she had miscalculated. Was he judging her? Perhaps he was horrified at what she had to do. Was he planning to leave Winterfell now? Perhaps he was disgusted with her.

Sansa opened her mouth to apologize, to dismiss him if he wanted to leave, both the room and her service, but Sandor cut her off before she could begin.

“Not only is the Little Bird the Lady of Winterfell, but she is Lady of the Eyrie too?” Sandor barked out a laugh. “Much _has_ changed between us, Little Bird. I am a liege-less second son of a landed knight; a traitor and a murderer. You, well you now rule over two of the Seven Kingdoms. Aye, you ask what has changed? Much and more.”

“No,” Sansa shook her head.

“Deny it all you want, but we were never equal to begin with anyhow.”

“No,” she repeated, “I sent Rickon and Osha with Brienne and my Great Uncle, the Blackfish, back to the Vale. As cousin to Lord Robin, and brother to the Lady Protectoress, I have made him Lord of the Eyrie and Protector of the Vale. I have renounced my titles there.”

“Wouldn’t you want your family around you?” Sandor inquired.

“Yes,” she agreed, but he knew that. “I had hoped to raise Rickon in my mother’s stead when I found out he was alive. But Jon had told me what was coming from Beyond the Wall. I knew that I would not be able to send Arya away – she’d just sneak back.”

“Aye, more like she’d never leave in the first place.”

“Exactly.” Sansa almost smiled. “After Jon…came back to life, he said he would never leave the North, besides, the Vale would never follow a bastard of Lord Eddard. Lady Catelyn’s bastard _maybe_ but never a Stark. And I refuse to leave my home, now that I am back. I never want to go back south again. Even to the Vale. It would not be fair to the people to have their Liege Lady not living among them.”

“So you sent your youngest brother in your stead.”

“He was so wild, so uncontrollable here,” Sansa explained. “Osha told me that he was well behaved normally, that it was this place that made him crazy. She said that when they fled after Winterfell was sacked, Rickon calmed down. It was upon his return that the wildness also returned. Osha thought it’d be a good idea to take him to the Vale when I asked for her advice. Rickon agreed. Uncle Blackfish will govern and teach him until he is old enough to rule in his own stead. And Osha will keep him in line.”

“Did the Others coming have anything to do with this decision to send him away?”

Sansa had the decency to blush. “Is it selfish of me? To want just _one_ Stark to survive till the spring?”

“Not selfish, Little Bird. Smart.”

“You don’t find me stupid anymore?”

Sandor didn’t say anything. Sansa tried to hold out her arm but had to let it drop off the edge of the bed. It hurt too much.

“Told you, you need to keep warm,” he muttered as he leaned forward to lift her arm and place it under the furs.

“I was reaching to hold your hand, to tell you that I have long ago forgiven you for your actions in Kings Landing,” she replied. “It was a jape. And a bad one. Please don’t be cross.”

“I’m only cross because you’re undermining my attempts to keep you alive,” he muttered. “Telling me not to build the fire; not to cover your arm.”

Sansa sighed, the corner of her mouth twitching at his grumblings. “You know, you could keep me warm.”

“Aye, I suppose I have enough warmth to spare.”

“Then…” Sansa wanted to keep her eyes open but suddenly she was so tired. She wanted more time with him. She didn’t want this quiet moment between them to end. Sleep was coming fast for her and then he’d leave. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Three days,” Sandor replied instantly as though he had been counting. “You emerged from the crypts in the morning and was asleep by the afternoon. But the Woodswitch your sister found says you’re healing well. She says sleep is good.”

“Sandor?”

“Little Bird.”

“When I wake again, will you still be here?”

“Aye, I’ll be somewhere in the castle or on the ramparts, I’m sure.”

“No, will you be in this room, with me?”

“Little Bird…”

“Come sit on the bed,” Sansa whispered patting her good arm to the space next to her. “Come sit and hold me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You’re as naked as your name day, Little Bird.”

“Just do it,” she grunted, agitated.

“If Jon or the Wolf Bitch catch me, they’ll kill be where I lay.”

“Then they’ll have to kill me too.”

“Little Bird….”

“As Lady of Winterfell, _I_ will choose what I do. No man, no woman, _no one_ will tell me otherwise. Leave your clothes on if you insist but come hold me while I sleep. If I die, I want to do so in your arms.”

Sandor sighed and slowly got to his feet. He pointed a finger at her and growled, “If I hold you, Little Bird, you are not to die, do you understand me?”

“I just said no man can tell me what to do.”

Sandor walked around the bed, dropping his armor on the chest at the foot of the bed, and kicked off his boots. His trousers were dropped haphazardly on the rug. Sandor left his tunic on - it came down mid-thigh and Sansa was able to catch a glimpse at the red scar on his thigh - and pulled back the furs. He slid into the bed and roughly, though so caringly, wrapped his arms around her, pulling her shoulder to his chest. One hand twined their fingers together, while the other settled on her hip.

“I’m not just a man,” his chest rumbled. “I will tell you what to do.”

“Because you’re mine, Sandor,” she whispered.

“Stop chirping Little Bird. Let your old tired dog sleep. He may have to defend his balls or his life come morning.”

“You’re not a dog!”

“Hush,” he mumbled, squeezing her hip and nuzzling his nose into her hair. “Fine, then let your old tired consort sleep.”

“That,” she whispered, closing her eyes, “I can do.”


	3. Chapter 3

First there was a jug shattering on the floor.

Then Sansa was being pulled further into the center of the bed.

Then there was a great weight on top of her, though not smothering her.

By the time there was shouting from Arya, Sansa was fully awake.

And then there was more shouting.

And even more shouting which brought Jon into the room shouting.

Sansa couldn’t take it anymore.

“ENOUGH!” she screamed as loudly as she could. When her echo died away, the room was silent. Now she had a headache and her throat hurt. She sighed, closing her eyes. “Jon, send the guards away. I’m not being attacked.”

“Sansa—”

“Just do it!” she shouted.

Jon muttered to the guards and they shuffled from the room, closing the door behind them.

“Arya, Jon, put away your swords.”

“No,” Arya hissed.

“Arya!” Sansa exclaimed.

“What are you doing in Lady Sansa’s bed, in only a tunic, with your sword?” Arya growled at the man who had put himself between Sansa and the door.

“Sansa?” Jon asked, stepping closer. “Has Clegane hurt you? Has he forced himself on you?”

“What?” her mind was moving so slow and the pounding in her brain was so loud.

“Clegane!” Jon reminded her. “Has he forced you to do anything?”

“I’m not my brother, bastard,” Sandor growled.

“The situation begs to differ,” Arya spat.

“Arya! Stand down!” Sansa ordered. “Jon, nothing has happened! Sheath your sword. And Sandor—”

“’Sandor’?” Jon sputtered. “Sansa!”

She rolled her eyes. He thought this was unlike her. He thought that she was still the proper little lady of a sister that he had known before their family was scattered to the corners of Westeros. He didn’t know about Kings Landing. He didn’t know about a lot of things. Only Arya did…at the least, she knew parts.

“Yes,” she spat, “that is his name.” Ignoring anything else her brother had to say, Sansa continued, “Sandor, put your blade away too.”

He was the first to set it tip down on the floor, leaning against the side table. Arya followed suit but Jon still stood there, confusion on his face.

“Little Bird?” Sandor looked down at her for instructions. “Did I hurt you?”

“I don’t think so.”

His eyes told her that he wanted to say something else. Instead, he gave her a curt nod and climbed off of her. Sansa watched him a moment while he walked behind the privacy screen to use the chamber pot.

“Care to explain that?” Arya sniggered.

Sansa turned her head and attempted to shrug. “That I asked him to stay with me?”

“Sansa!”

“Come off it Jon!” she groaned.

“He was naked in your bed! While you are naked!”

“He had his tunic on,” Arya pointed out helpfully.

“I thought you hated the man,” Jon accused her as he angrily sheathed his sword.

Arya shrugged. “It’s a complicated relationship from a complicated time.”

“And this doesn’t bother you?” he wondered, waving his hand around the room. “Whatever _this_ is?”

“I’ve had my suspicions for a while,” Arya replied.

“Just how long has _this_ been going on!”

“We need to define what _this_ is before that can be answered,” Sandor replied as he slipped into his trousers.

“Sandor was my only ally in King’s Landing,” Sansa tried to explain.

“But he worked for the Lannister’s!”

“Yes he did!” she said, raising her voice. “But you seemed perfectly okay with bringing him to Winterfell after whatever adventure it was you found him on!”

“I would have considered otherwise had I know about the two of you!” he threw back.

Sansa ignored him and turned to her sister, “Arya help me up.”

She soundlessly nodded and started to pull back the furs. Sandor came around the bed and extended his hand, offering his help. Sansa nodded, accepting. He pulled her upright but left a hand on her shoulder while the room spun in her vision. Arya had stuck her head out of the door and ordered for a hot pitcher of water to be brought up for Lady Sansa. That snapped Jon out of his daze.

“Stop! Everyone just stop!”

Sansa looked up at the spitting image of her father.

“Sansa this is indecent. Clegane needs to leave.”

“No,” Sansa sighed, tired as the adrenaline seeped from her blood. “Jon, Sandor will stay as long as he wishes to or until I ask him to step out. I want him here; I want him around. If anything, _you_ need to leave.”

“Not while he’s in here with you!”

“Will you be staying for our marriage bed too?” Sansa wondered, staring intently at her half-brother.

That caught Arya’s attention. “ _Marriage_? I wasn’t expecting that! Never thought Clegane to be the type!”

“I don’t know if he is!” Sansa huffed, suddenly aware that the situation was quickly slipping out of her control. “I only meant to ask if Jon would be supervising everything between us.”

“No,” he snapped, “Because there will be _nothing_ between you two.”

Sansa grabbed Sandor’s wrist and pulled on him as she forced herself to stand. He held her elbow tightly, watching her face closely. She knew that he could see the pain she was in. She shivered as the cold air washed over her naked skin, her entire body protested, and her ankle was screaming. But still she stood resolute.

Arya appeared at her other side and carefully took her other elbow for more support.

“On whose authority to you declare that?” Sansa wondered.

“My own,” Jon replied, squaring his shoulders, “as is my responsibility as your elder brother, and on our father’s.”

“You forfeit all authority and responsibility over my personage when you abdicated your throne,” Sansa stated. “I will consider your opinion as the son of my father, out of respect for Lord Eddard. But as your Lady of House Stark, Lady of Winterfell, and Lady in the North, you have no power over me.”

“Sansa, you can’t be serious!” Jon balked.

“I think she is quite serious, Jon,” Arya commented. “Do you not see how cold she is and how much pain she is in, forcing herself to stand?”

“It is none of your business,” Sansa continued, “as to whom I consort with. Which, as my brother and the love I have for you, I will tell you that I choose Sandor Clegane, and though it is none of your business, _nothing_ has happened between us yet.”

Jon snorted.

“Think what you will, Jon,” Sansa sighed. “I asked him to stay the night with me after he stoked the hearth, like Arya asked him to do on his patrol.”

At this, Jon shot Arya a glare. She shrugged it off.

“I feared that I would die in the night, and I did not want to die alone. I wanted to know at least once before I died, what it felt like to lie in the arms of a man who loves me, and a man I love in return. Nothing happened between us this night except for restful sleep.”

“With him in only his tunic, right,” Jon snorted again.

“I am glad he shed his dirty, muddy armor and boots!” Sansa exclaimed. “I suspect that sleeping in a feather bed but in layers of armor is rather uncomfortable!”

“Did you tell him to strip?”

“No,” Sansa admitted, “but neither did I tell him to remain clothed.”

Jon paced the room for a moment. A knock on the door came and he retrieved the pitcher and cloth of water. He sat them on the table near the chamber pot and continued his pacing.

“Jon stop!” Sansa finally ordered. “You’re making me dizzy!”

“Sansa,” he began but she cut him off.

“No, I do not want to hear anymore right now. Meet Sandor in the training yard in half an hour. I will permit you two to hash out anything you may be feeling. But in no manner will either of you strike a blow for injury or death, do you understand me?”

Jon glared at her.

Sandor nodded once at her side. “Aye Little Bird, only bruises.”

“Little Bird?” Jon asked almost mockingly.

“There is much you do not know, Jon,” Sansa informed him. “There is much I have not told you. Go now.”

“When he does.”

“No, go now, he will follow in a moment.”

Jon sighed but then agreed. He opened and closed the door with more force than what was necessary.

After a moment Sansa said, still staring at the door, “Arya, you’ve been very…supportive this morning.”

She shrugged. “I suppose there are worse cunts you could consort with. At least this one would do anything in his power to protect you.”

Sansa looked up at Sandor. His lips were pursed but he nodded all the same.

“Arya, find me something to wear. Sandor, help me to the stool so I can wash.”

“And then he leaves,” Arya insisted.

“Yes, he’ll leave,” Sansa agreed.

Arya stepped away to the wardrobe and Sandor moved his arm around the small of her back. Slowly Sansa limped across the room.

“I could carry you, Little Bird,” Sandor replied.

“I need to practice,” she hissed back, “if I am going to make to at least the balcony to oversee your sparring with Jon.”

“You should rest instead,” he muttered as he lowered her to sitting on the stool.

Sansa shook her head, “if the men have to go about their duties with injuries then so shall I.”

“I know better than to argue with you,” Sandor replied. “But you _will_ sit when stationary and you will have an attendant at your side, at all times.”

“Choose me someone and I’ll do as you ask,” Sansa smiled up at him.

“In the meantime, keep the Wolf Bitch with you.”

“Wait till Jon finds out that you’ll take orders from Clegane but not him!” Arya said laughing as she laid a dress on the stand and placed a brush on the table next to the water jug.

“He’ll get used to it sooner or later,” Sansa murmured.

Sandor bent over and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, whispering _my queen_ so softly that only Sansa could her, and then deftly slid back into his armor before exiting the room.

Arya poured water into the basin and drenched the cloth. As she sat about dabbing at Sansa’s back, she commented, “Never seen the Hound so tender. Never seen him kiss anyone either.”

“Please don’t call him the Hound. It’s bad enough he calls himself a dog.”

“As long as he calls me wolf bitch, I’ll call him hound,” Arya replied. “But I will stop others from calling him that.”

“Thank you.”

“Never seen him so protective either as he was in bed, on top of you.”

“It all happened so fast, I didn’t even hear you come in!”

“He did. It’s soldier instincts.”

“Do you ever get solid sleep?” Sansa wondered as she wiped her hands of the grime from weeks of being in the crypts. “Always being on alert like that must be so exhausting.”

“You do get sleep, but you also need to survive,” Arya commented, moving around to Sansa’s chest. “Like I said, he’s protective of you. I appreciate that.”

“You are rather calm,” Sansa noted. “I would have guessed you’d be more like Jon.”

“Stupid?”

“Explosive.”

“Ah,” Arya nodded, “I suppose so. But I’ve had years to consider you and the Hound.”

“From your travels together?”

“From his dying words.”

“Oh,” Sansa wasn’t sure what to say to that.

Arya poured water into the basin and slid it under Sansa’s feet. She began carefully scrubbing her legs, mindful of her ankle. “He said some awful things, when he thought he was dying. I left him to suffer for those words. But now I see, he was trying to provoke me.”

“He’s very good at provoking people.”

“But he failed with me. I made him suffer and that ultimately saved his life, I guess. It allowed him to save Jon when they went North of the Wall, and it allowed him to help fight against the Others.”

“It allowed him to come back to me,” Sansa whispered. “I prayed for so long to have him on my side again, at my side.”

Arya paused as she sat the cloth down. “You really do love him, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“You look like mother, when she’d look at father sometimes.”

“I know, I look just like her,” Sansa murmured; the voice of Peter Baelish echoing in her ears.

“I suppose you have more her look than I,” Arya agreed, “but I meant with the way she loved father. Sometimes she’d look at him and you could read it all over her face.”

“I remember.”

“That’s what you looked like with Clegane, just before he left.”

Sansa sat in silence, pondering that as Arya finished washing her. She helped her crouch over the chamber pot before moving her to sit on the best at the foot of the bed. Arya knelt and, as gently as she could though Sansa still hissed at her and her knuckles turned white as they gripped the bed frame behind her, slid Sansa into a practically new pair of wool tights.

“Where did you find these?” Sansa wondered. “If I had known I had these I would have worn them ages ago!”

“Found them in the wardrobe,” Arya shrugged. “There have been enough inhabitants of our home that things were bound to be left behind. Do they fit?”

Sansa nodded. “Surprisingly so.”

While Sansa slowly pulled on the chemise – determined to do at the very least this one thing by herself – Arya tightly rewrapped Sansa ankle, “Just as the witch showed me the other day,” she muttered to herself. Arya tied Sansa’s stay in place then helped Sansa step into the quilted petticoat she had found.

“This is huge,” Sansa commented as the fabric both reached her ankles and had no way of staying on her hips.

“The same woman did not own the stockings and the petticoat,” her sister snickered.

“No,” Sansa couldn’t help but chuckle too, “I suppose not.”

“The extra fabric will help keep you warm, since you won’t be moving around as much till that ankle heals better.”

“Will I trip with it being so long?”

“Doubt it,” Arya replied. “You won’t be moving fast enough to have to worry about it. Just be careful when going up stairs.”

Sansa paused her little sister with a gentle hand on her shoulder when she moved away to grab the dress. She searched the brown eyes of the Stark family, searching for… for what, she wasn’t sure. “When did you become so acquainted with dresses?”

“Had to.”

“When?”

“Before I came home.”

“Where?”

“Braavos.”

“The acting troop,” Sansa nodded. That was all Arya had told her of her time in Braavos. She had said that she was in training and spent a time with an acting troop. The training, Sansa assumed, had to do with the sword play – or dancing as Ayra called it – she had started in King’s Landing before their father’s death. And what Arya did with the acting troop, Sansa did not know. The sisters had an understanding with each other. They would not pry for information from one another; only listen and accept what was given.

“I’ll try and find you some thread and a needle to mend your dress with,” Arya said, tying the dress in the back while kneeling on the chest behind Sansa. “I don’t know though.”

“About finding a needle and thread?” Sansa wondered. “It shouldn’t be too hard, will it? I gave Maester Sam needles to help tend to the wounded months ago.”

“No, not the needle and thread.”

“Then what don’t you know?”

“If the dress you were wearing is mendable,” Arya said softly as she knelt on the floor and began wrapping fur around Sansa’s feet. “What happened down there?”

Sansa’s breath hitched in her throat.

Screams filled her mind along with the memories. She could only do so much. She tried. She fought. And others had fought. But so many had—

“Sansa!” Arya shook Sansa back into the present. “Sansa come back. Don’t tell me now. But soon you should tell someone.”

“The short sword, the one you game me,” Sansa said suddenly, looking up at her sister as Arya pulled a shawl around her shoulders and wool sleeves up her arms.

“What of it?”

“Where is it?”

“Jon brought it while you were asleep. It’s hanging by the door.”

Sansa looked to where her father had hung Ice every night. There hung Oathkeeper, as Arya had said it was called. Brienne had named it upon her acquiring of it and then had given it to Arya when the crossed paths in the Riverlands. Arya had brought it North when she returned home. After hearing of the threat coming from the North, Arya insisted that Sansa not only carry it, but have some training with it too just in case….

A sense of relief passed through Sansa.

“Help me stand,” she instructed. “I should buckle the belt before I don my cloak.”

Arya pulled her to her feet, making sure she was stable before retrieving a coat and the sword belt. She held the former up so Sansa could shrug her arms in the sleeves. After buttoning the coat, from thigh up to collarbone, Arya settled the belt on her hip.

“You’re surrounded by thousands of loyal bannermen, and Queens men too, I suppose,” Arya added as an afterthought. “She may not be crazy about your unwillingness to kneel like Jon, but she understands that if anything were to happen to the Lady of Winterfell _in_ Winterfell, she would lose the North before the North is won. The sword is only extra weight for you.”

“The men out there who are injured, do they still wear their weapons?”

“Yes,” Arya replied.

“And you?”

“You can see Needle on my hip, can you not?”

“Then why should I go about without my sword?”

Arya made no reply to that. As she circled the bed to pull Sansa’s cloak off of it and shake it, she did say, “I suppose it’s just strange to see you with a sword, that’s all.”

“All girls should be taught to fight along with their brothers,” Sansa murmured. The feeling of her cloak, the one that she’d kept in spite of everything, eased her breathing though it was not light itself.

“I agree,” Arya said. Then, “There, you’re ready.”

“I need shoes.”

“I laced fur-lined dear skin around the wool socks. If you stay out of the mud, deep puddles, and the snow drifts, they’ll keep your feet warm and dry. Best of all, they’ll not squeeze that ankle of yours.”

Sansa raised her skirts just enough to look at her feet. “They hardly match!”

Arya laughed as she pulled her own cloak around her shoulders. “Your petticoat is so long, as are your skirts, that no one will notice. Nor will anyone judge.”

“If you say so…”

“I do,” she insisted. “Let’s go. It’s time to see your consort fight our brother.”

When they opened the door, Sandor’s back was all they saw, standing in their way. He looked over his shoulder at the sound of the door and turned. Bowing at the waist kept his eyes locked with Sansa’s. She couldn’t help but feel the heat rise to her cheeks.

“What are you doing?” she asked, wishing she could fan her face without anyone seeing.

“Waiting to escort My Lady to the bailee to watch the sparing match with the Lord Bastard,” he replied.

“I have Arya,” she said.

“And you have me as well.” Sandor held her gaze, unfazed by her implication, almost challenging her to argue with him.

Sansa nodded after a moment, more relieved that she could believe. He held out his arm and she accepted in gratefully. He tucked her hand against his side. Sansa could nearly hear her sister roll her eyes as well as see them. But the younger Stark daughter walked alongside the elder without comment.

When they finally reached the door to the bailey, Sansa groaned, “are we walking as slow as I feel we are?”

“Slower, Little Bird,” Sandor replied quietly. “But we’ll go only as fast as you can. Your face paled after going down the first flight of stairs. They pain has slowed you down. We only walk at your pace, _my queen_ ”

“Thank you,” she whispered as he led her to a bench through swirling snow. Really it was a pile of wood, that Sansa quickly realized was bits of the missing railing in front of her. From her sitting position, Sansa could observe the inner yard of the castle and the training yard – or rather the portion that was being used as a training yard.

“You’ll keep your sister from falling?” Sandor asked.

“I doubt she’s at risk of…” Sansa looked up at him, but Sandor was eyeing Arya. “You’re speaking about me.”

His eyes fell down on her and his face softened. “Of course I am, Little Bird.”

“She needs so much help right now because of her injuries, she’d have to have help in order to fall,” Arya replied. “I’m so relieved she’s alive, I won’t be pushing her this day. She’ll be fine, Hound.”

Sandor nodded once and unfastened the cloak that he was wearing – the one that Sansa had just noticed. It was a motley thing stitched together but it looked warm enough and was almost the right size for him. He said it across Sansa’s lap and knelt to tuck in the sides.

“Sandor! You already gave up your cloak once for me,” Sansa chastised. “You need this one too.”

“Aye, but not while I’m sparring. I’ll be warm soon enough. Fighting does that. Gets the blood pumping. You will be sitting here stationary. Stay warm while you watch.”

Sansa nodded. His logic was solid enough. She pulled her hand out from under the cloak and grabbed his wrist as he tried to stand. “No injuries, remember?”

“I promise, Little Bird,” he said again, raising her hand to kiss her fingers.

“Answer me one more question before you go and defend our…” she struggled to find the word. “Our whatever this is.”

He smirked at the same phrase from earlier but remained still and silent.

“Where did you find a cloak that is almost the right size for you?”

“Some dead fucker,” he replied honestly. “Northman by the size of him.”

Sansa nodded, steeling her emotions though she suspected that Sandor saw right through her mask. He always did but as always, he said nothing on that matter though.

“After you spar, I need your help finding a few things.”

He cocked his head to the side, waiting.

“Find me another cloak or two – even if they’re torn or pieces of cloaks. Make sure they’re extra and unneeded by men or women who are cold. Just, any fabric that is left over. From the bodies. We should take what we can from the dead before we burn them…” Sansa sighed, finding her train of thought again, “I will also need a needle and as much thread as can be found and spared from stitching up the men.”

“Some women too,” Arya piped in. “Some of the women have had stitches, yourself included.”

Sansa closed her eyes, her face paling as she tried to get the stench of blood and rot out of her nose. But it was just so _present_. She couldn’t physically shake her head enough either. Nothing made it go away. Just like the images.

“Little Bird,” came the low, gruff voice of Sandor. His hands were on either side of her face, holding her still. Hadn’t he been wearing gloves a moment ago? She couldn’t remember. His face hovered closely in front of hers as he said her name, his name for her, until she blinked and nodded. She was back. She was on the bailey. It was snowing. Sandor knelt in front of her.

“Little Bird,” he said again. “It’s over. We won.”

Sansa nodded and Sandor used his thumb to swipe away the tear that had slipped from her swollen eye.

“Now, tell me why you need more cloaks.”

“Cloaks?”

“You want me to find you another one or two. Why?”

“To sew together,” she whispered. “To sew onto your cloak, this cloak you now have. To make it big enough and warm enough for you.”

“If you insist.”

“I do,” she replied.

Sandor leaned in and kissed her forehead, his lips lingering a moment. As he pulled away, he whispered, “as my queen wishes.”

Sandor stood and straightened to his full height. “You can see the yard okay?”

“Yes.” Sansa smiled. “Go spar now. I can see Jon pacing.”

Arya settled next to her, going so far as to pull part of Sandor’s cloak to cover her own legs. They didn’t speak except to thank the man who brought them each a tankard of hot mulled cider. Jon and Sandor fought for more than an hour until both had separated, gasping for breath in the freezing air. Jon’s friend, Tormund the Wilding, stepped between them laughing, which bounced off the castle around them. Jon took off his glove, stepping forward. Sandor mimicked the motion. The two men shook hands and exchanged words as they slipped back into their gloves and sheathed their swords. Jon swung his cloak around his shoulders and Sandor nodded his head towards the bailey. Jon looked up at his sisters and smiled.

“Has your ass frozen to the wood yet?” Arya suddenly asked.

Sansa started laughing. She knew she was drawing eyes from around the courtyard on her but she could care.

“Did the Others take your brain?” Arya said standing.

The laughter caught in Sansa’s throat so suddenly that Arya looked down and shook her head. “I’m sorry Sansa, I spoke without thinking.”

“I—” Sansa didn’t know how to explain. “Though I know you’re my sister – I helped mother change your nappy and bathe you – sometimes I wonder if you are more a brother. You fit in with the men so well. They respect you, follow you. You should be the Lady of Winterfell, not me. We need a strong leader.”

Arya pulled Sansa upright and added Sandor’s cloak on top of hers. “I may be the better fighter,” she conceded, “but you’re better with figures and running a household. You’re Lady Stark, just as it should be.”

“But,” Sansa said as she limped back towards the door, “you won’t be leaving Winterfell now that we’ve won, will you?”

“I only plan on going where you tell me to – unless you marry me off.”

“I certainly will _not_ be doing that.”

“Then I plan on remaining at your side, as advisor and in whatever capacity you need me to fill.”

Sandor, Jon, and Tormund appeared at that moment. Once again the wilding was laughing. “Snow! Your sister kissed by fire is moving! Though a snow snail might travel faster!”

Jon laughed, “I wanted her to stay in bed, but she refused. I’m pleased she’s walking about.”

“Fierce like you!” Tormund complimented. His face changed then as if something had donned on him. He looked between the three siblings and Sandor before gasping. “Clegane! I thought you said you hated gingers.”

Sansa’s eyes darted to Sandor’s and Tormund didn’t miss it. He grinned while Sandor scowled. “I hate big bearded gingers.”

“Sure sure,” Tormund said, waving him off. To Sansa he said, “May I escort you to the hall for meal?”

“I hardly know what time it is,” Sansa commented but nodded. “I am hungry.”

“Give Clegane his cloak back,” Jon instructed, “and we’ll see what the cooks have made for us tonight.”

“Are you not coming with us?” she wondered as Sandor stepped forward to pull the cloth from her shoulders.

He buckled it at his chest, stating, “I’ve got duties to see to, Little Bird.”

Sansa just nodded. She realized that she didn’t know how to behave in this new position of hers. She was the Lady, as her father had been the Lord. But she was also to see to the household as her mother had done. If Sandor was her consort, how was she to address him in public? She didn’t even know what duties it was he had to attend to! She didn’t know the state of her castle or the losses that her people had suffered. She didn’t know how low they were on provisions or if they had to be rationing. How was she to be Lady of Winterfell without knowing what to do!

“By listening to those around you who do know what to do,” Sandor said to her, still standing in front of her. He was looking down on her, concern causing his eyebrows to furl together.

“Can you hear my thoughts?”

“No, Little Bird, but I can hear what you say out loud.”

“I spoke?” Sansa looked to Jon for confirmation. Her brother nodded.

“Perhaps just an effect of the blow to your head,” Arya offered. “We’ll get the Woodswitch to check on you after we eat.”

“Sandor, you must eat before you begin,” she said. It sounded like the right thing to insist upon.

He smiled, “Aye, I’ll grab a few rolls and skin of wine from the kitchens on my way.”

“On your way…” _where_ was how she wanted to finish the question.

“Having a look at where we stand defensively. Lord Snow has delegated some duties so tallies can be counted faster.”

“And you’ll stay warm?”

“I’ll stay as warm as winter will allow.”

“And you come report your figures before you turn in for the night?” she added quickly, hoping her blush wasn’t too notable.

“Aye,” Sandor nodded, “we’ll start to discuss the state of things. My Lady needs to be caught up as to what happened during and after the battle.”

“Good.”

A moment came and went while no one moved. They only looked at her. Jon cleared his throat. “Sansa, Clegane is waiting for you to dismiss him.”

“Dismiss?”

“Like father used to do.”

“I don’t know…we always left…Mother wanted us to leave the room before the men did,” Sansa murmured. Panic rose as she realized that she was not equipped to be what she was. She was supposed to have a Lord Husband who handled this side of the estate. This was too much. She didn’t know anything of importance!

“When a man-at-arms has been in counsel with you, or in conversation of ranking, outside of passing by and discussing things unpertaining to duties, you dismiss them to continue working,” Jon explained kindly. It was his way of pointing her in the right direction. He must have realized that she needed schooling, she thought. Quick on her feet – if anything she was quick on her feet.

“And if it is in passing and outside of duties?” Sansa asked.

“The dismissal is less formal,” Jon said. “Father always used, ‘as you were’ to say he didn’t have anything further to talk about.”

“Is this a …” Sansa didn’t even know what word to use. “What sort of situation is this?”

“One of ranking and counsel,” Jon answered.

“And what do I tell Sandor to dismiss him?”

“’Dismissed.’”

Sansa looked to her brother. “That’s so cold!”

“He’s a subordinate.”

“But he’s Sandor!”

“Not in this moment.”

Sansa sucked in a breath and nodded. She turned to Sandor, willing him to believe that she hated being so distant with their interaction. He nodded, ever so slightly, to encourage her. Sansa swallowed and said, “I await your report, Lord Clegane, dismissed.”

Sandor glared a moment at the title but bowed his head and walked away.

Jon chuckled, “You still managed to sound like a lady.”

“I am a lady,” Sansa huffed.

“Ignore the bastard,” Tormund said, bending over and sweeping Sansa off of her feet. She gasped and tried to reach out instinctually to wrap her arms around his neck but the pain in her arm would not let her.

“Put my sister down,” Jon sighed.

“Those kissed by fire have our own way of dismissing our partners.”

“I can walk, Lord Tormund,” Sansa stuttered, trying to regain her courtesies.

“I’m not a Lord.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Sansa scoffed. “And he just accepted it without complaint and walked away without comment. So, I say again, Lord Tormund, I can walk.”

“We also don’t let others kissed by fire walk across a castle in pain on a broken ankle.”

“Do the wildlings have many castles?” she wondered as Tormund followed Arya.

“Free Folk,” he corrected. “But no, we don’t. Only what children build in the snow.”

“Then how would you know about pain and walking across a castle?”

“It’s a new world, Lady Fire.”

“That it is, my Lord, that it is,” Sansa sighed, resigning herself to being carried.


	4. Chapter 4

After meal, she sought out Maester Samwell. They spent time in the Library, which double as his office because his Maesters quarters had been destroyed in the battle, sitting by the fire discussing what steps Sansa needed to take to rebuilding her house. She needed to establish many long-empty positions such as steward, head cook, master-at-arms, and many more.

A knock on the door had Arya on her toes and peeking through the crack. She whispered words and then closed the door again. Sansa looked up from the ledger that Maester Samwell was walking her through about what food stores had survived the battle. Arya didn’t meet her gaze.

“Arya, who was that?”

“Nothing to worry about.”

“Arya…”

She sank down into the chair again, throwing her leg over the arm. “It was the attendant for the Queen.”

“Missandei?”

“Yes.”

“What did she need? You should have let her in!”

“She said that the Dragon Queen required your audience at this moment.”

Sansa pushed the ledger onto the table and smoothed her skirt. “Come help me up, Arya. Mussn’t keep her waiting very long.”

“I told the attendant that you were still recovering.”

“In the library?”

“Don’t want to overstimulate you too fast. Told her that we’d see how you feel in a few days and then she can schedule a meeting.”

Sansa sighed, “Very well. It must be supper time soon. I can smell the kitchens.”

“Would you like me to help you to the Hall, my lady?” Maester Samwell offered his hand, standing.

“No, thank you,” Sansa replied but did take his arm to help her up. “I’m quite tired. I think I’ll take a light supper in my room.”

“Would you like me to take a look at your ankle? The stitches on your face are doing just nicely.”

Sansa paused and then swallowed. “Maester Samwell, may I be frank with you?”

“Of course, Lady Sansa.”

“What are your plans now? Will you be going back to the Wall soon?”

“Ah,” Samwell understood her meaning. “With the battle over, the Night’s Watch will start to return to Castle Black. Jon has asked me to stay on at Winterfell until the Citadel is able to send a qualified Maester, worthy of the Stark name. That is, if you allow me to stay.”

“You are most welcome,” Sansa encouraged as they nearly crawled across the room to the door. She limped heavily and leaned on the maester even more. “With your next correspondence with the Citadel, please convey my request that whoever they send has the same chains as the last maester, Maester Luwin. We have special needs here in the North.”

“Of course, I will pass that along. I know what it is to have a special Maester,” he added. “What troubles your mind, My Lady?”

Sansa paused before speaking as two guards on patrol passed them in a corridor. “I mean no offence, truly,” she began, “I find your skills appropriate and not lacking in any way. But…” she sighed, pausing at the top of the stairs, looking down. “you are close to Jon.”

“Whatever you need will stay between us,” Samwell insisted. “After Jon came to me and said you might be requesting moontea, I replied that in no uncertain terms would I discuss anothers health with him – with anyone other than that individual! So you may confide in me, Lady Sansa, your secrets are safe with me.”

“I appreciate that,” Sansa replied, blushing. Arya took her other elbow and together they helped their lady down the flight of stairs. “And no, I won’t be needing moontea. And it’s not that I fear you would share gossip about me to Jon. It’s more…it’s more that since you two share a very close friendship, and there are things that I have not told Jon, that you would find out, it is…awkward for me. Do I make any sense?”

“Some,” Samwell responded though his face furled with thought. They continued in silence for a while until Arya opened Sansa’s bedroom chamber door.

“Near the fire, please,” Sansa requested. The maester made sure she was comfortable before stepping back.

“My Lady, if I may speak freely?”

Sansa looked up at the potly man’s round face. He had kind eyes, understanding eyes. The kind of eyes that said he’d seen and endured somethings – perhaps even worse than Sansa herself had. She nodded, “of course.”

“I will stay on here at Winterfell until you approve of a new Maester. I want you to feel comfortable with whoever it is. The Woodswitch Arya found is exceptional in what she can do with herbs and healing. But a Maester has rigorous training that Winterfell needs.”

“I do not disagree with you.”

“I will continue focusing on the others and let the Woodswitch oversee you, if that is what you wish. But may I ask, my lady,” Samwell said, licking his lips, “that you allow me to look at your arm and your ankle? Just your arm and your ankle.”

“I…” Sansa didn’t know what to tell him.

“You needn’t raise your skirts more than to your knee. And I would only need to see to just above your elbow.”

Sansa found herself nodding. She was in a deal of pain.

Arya came to sit next to her while Samwell helped Sansa raise her heel to rest on the footstool. She pulled up her skirt as high as she was comfortable, not revealing her knee. Samwell knelt began unwrapping her foot.

While he worked, Sansa found herself talking. “I’m not ashamed of my body. Or shy.”

“I hadn’t given it a thought,” he replied softly, pausing to hold his hands close to the fire before touching her skin.

“Just this morning Arya helped me with my chamber pot and bathed me. And before that I had to stand tall in front of Jon to get him to back down.”

“What she’s not saying is that she was as naked as her name day after the Hound was found in her bed,” Arya piped in helpfully.

Maester Samwell only paused for a split second before nodding and continuing with his examination. “Jon often spoke of his sisters, when were on the Wall, during watch. I knew your ages but the way he spoke about you, he still considered you both small children than needed help and protection. And when you appeared on the Wall, he became your older brother again instantly. He cares deeply about you, Lady Sansa, about you both,” Samwell nodded to Arya. “He’s like a father, I suspect, in that he has a hard time accepting that you are a woman grown – and twice married.”

“But only bedded by the second,” Sansa interrupted.

“That fact, he does not accept, I should think,” Samwell smiled. “So forgive his archaic actions and ignore him when he fusses.”

“And I am his Lady now too,” Sansa added. “Luckily so far he has kept his … protections to the private room and not in front of people not in the family.”

“The Hound is not family,” Arya insisted.

Samwell chuckled at that. “I have spent some time with Clegane.”

“You have?” This peaked Sansa’s interest.

“Oh yes, my Lady. And I find him a very honest man. He is rough, both in nature and in appearance, but he has a good heart I think. If you let Clegane in, my Lady, as you seem to let so few outsiders in, you will have a loyal companion for life.”

“I’ve known Sandor for a long time,” she whispered.

“So I suspected. And he’s good to you?”

“He’s never hurt me. He’s only ever tried to protect me.”

“Then,” Samwell said as he started to rewrap her ankle, “there are worse men for you to consort with. Since you are a married woman,” Samwell blushed pink, “you know the things you must do to clean yourself after…”

Sansa too blushed but nodded, “Yes, I had a friend in the Vale who taught me what mothers don’t say.”

“Your Woodswitch could find what you need, no doubt, but if she can’t, I will provide whatever herbs you need. I will also keep your counsel, My Lady.”

“Thank you Maester,” Sansa said earnestly. “Do you want to see my arm now?”

“No, I’ve taxed your nerves enough for one day. I shall look tomorrow when we continue with the ledgers?”

“That sounds appropriate,” Sansa agreed. “How is my ankle?”

“Your Woodswitch knows what she’s doing. I’m very grateful for her help with the wounded too. You are quite swollen now but I suspect that is from all of the walking on it you have done today.”

“It hurts too.”

“Unsurprising. Until we say so, you need to stay off of it completely.”

“You are putting me on bed rest!” Sansa exclaimed. “No, I need to be among my people.”

“Not bed rest, my Lady. Just stay off the foot. I saw Tormund bring you to midday meal, being carried is one way. Some wounded soldiers are using crutches – sticks that go under your arms to help you balance – but I suspect with your arm and with skirts, the task may not be easy. I can have a chair with wheels built, the only problem being stairs.”

“I can’t decide right now,” Sansa said leaning back.

“Well think on it, my Lady. I bid you a good night.”

Arya saw him to the door and came back with her dressing gown. Sansa raised her eyebrow.

“Clegane will be back at some point,” she shrugged, “I doubt his big sausage fingers can help you with your buttons and ties.”

“Must you insult him so?” Sansa wondered as she began shedding layers.

“It’s what we do,” she replied.

“You two are very strange.”

“I could say that about _you._ ”

Arya left Sansa in her shift and helped her to the chamber pot before loosely tying her into the dressing gown. “The Hound should be able to help you take this off if you want. Let’s get you in bed so that the Maester doesn’t scold you.”

“I’d rather sit at the desk,” Sansa replied. “I’ll take my supper there and make notes. I have so many thoughts in my head.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

“No, I won’t be going out again tonight. Just have supper brought up.”

“Call if you need me,” Arya said exiting the room.

Sansa still sat at the small desk under one of the windows in her room later that night. The servant had brought her supper to her and then and returned with an empty notebook that she had requested. She alternated between dipping her quill and scratching thoughts on the parchment and sipping on the venison stew.

A short rap on the door barely stirred her from her thoughts but the door opening broke her concentration. Sansa turned to look over her shoulder. Sandor was surveying the room, his daggar in hand ready to strike.

“Are you going to kill the ghosts of my parents who haunt me?” she wondered, turning back to cap her ink pot.

“You didn’t answer the door,” he replied, walking the room and looking in and behind the furniture.

“There’s no one but me in here, Sandor.”

“Why didn’t you answer?”

“I could have been asleep.”

“Your candles were still lit.”

“Perhaps I didn’t hear you.”

“What were you doing?” he asked, stopping next to her desk. “You should be more alert to what is going on around you.”

“I was emptying my thoughts onto paper,” Sansa said.

Sandor reached out and tilted her face upward with one finger under her chin. He studied her face and grunted, “You look tired. Sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow about figures.”

When he made to turn to leave, Sansa straightened her sore back and said, “You are not dismissed, Lord Clegane.”

He smirked at her. “My Lady, I’ve told you plenty of times. I am no lord.”

“Would you rather I call for my brother and have him instruct me on how to knight you?”

Sandor’s face dropped, the humor leaving shadows.

It was Sansa’s turn to smirk. “I figured as much. You will accept you rise in station.”

“I’ve no lands or keep suiting the title,” he replied. Their eyes were locked with their battle of the wills.

Sansa smiled and Sandor frowned.

“Spit it out Little Bird,” he barked.

“Half-a-day’s solid ride from here lies Castle Cerwyn,” she began. “By all accounts, Lord Medger Cerwyn died for my brother in the south after the battle of the Green Fork. His daughter, I believe, the Lady Jonelle inherited the castle from her younger brother, Lord Clay, when he died most likely due to the Bolton’s, though no one knows how or where.”

“Do I know these Cerwyns?”

“I doubt it. A minor Northern house.”

“Then why are you telling me this?”

“Allow me to finish, my Lord,” Sansa answered. “While I speak you may take the time to shed your armor and warm by my hearth.”

Sandor grunted – Sansa had no doubt it was at her _allowing_ him to do anything – but began unbuckling what he could reach. What he couldn’t, Sansa motioned him forwards to help with the ties out of his reach while she spoke. “Lady Jonelle was killed by the Bolton’s while they inhabited my castle. Lord Roose suspected disloyalty from the house – after all, the Cerwyn’s have been close, close friends of the Starks for many a generation. The castle remains in one piece, if not for the neglect, from what I’ve heard.”

Sandor stepped away from her and laid out his armor on the chest.

“I really must find out where Father put his armor when he relaxed at night,” Sansa commented. “Just laying your clothes about can’t be good for them.”

“They’ll be just fine, Little Bird,” he murmured as he took off his tunic. Sansa watched him as he poured the cold water from the jug and wiped down his skin, seemingly unaware of the temperature. “What is your point to telling me all about Castle Cerwyn?”

“You haven’t guessed my point by now?” she asked innocently. He looked at her with a hard glare.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“The castle will be renamed Castle Clegane and will stand as your seat for your Lordship.”

Sandor stilled. He dropped the rag over the edge of the bowl and came to stand next to Sansa. She had to crane her neck up to look at him. He searched her eyes. Then nodded. “So. Planning on sending me away, Little Bird?”

Sansa’s heart dropped. No, that wasn’t what she meant.

Sandor cupped her chin, stroking her cheek. “You used to be so good at hiding your feelings. Now I can see when your mood changes. But I am still unable to read your thoughts. Chirp, Little Bird.”

Her eyes dropped to stare at the black hair around his navel. She closed her eyes. “I only intended that you have a castle to be called a Lord for true. It is the closest castle to Winterfell, and it is without a master too. Half-a-day’s ride is not far. You would still be able to oversee it though I had hoped you’d stay here…. with me…if you’d rather leave…”

“Look at me Little Bird,” he whispered almost as soon as her voice had trailed off.

Sansa quickly blinked back her tears before looking up.

“Do you need help getting to the bed?”

“No, I can manage if you need to go,” she replied, her voice crackling.

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not!” Sansa jerked her head away from him. With her good arm doing as much of the work as her good leg, Sansa used the desk to push herself up. Swallowing the bile in her throat she turned to Sandor. “I _can_ manage on my own.”

“Can you walk?”

“Yes, but Maester Samwell says I should not.”

His eyebrows rose. “You allowed the Maester to examine you?”

“Just my ankle,” she hissed looking down at her desk and shuffling her papers. “Would you like to discuss your counts today here or by the hearth? Or do you think I need my sleep?”

“Is that what you wear to bed?”

“What?” she stilled her hands. “No, of course not. This is just my dressing gown. I used to sleep in only my shift.”

“But?”

“Harry preferred that I didn’t,” Sansa said.

“He’s dead.”

“Yes, and it’s winter so I sleep in my shift.”

“Let your defenses down, Little Bird,” Sandor hummed. He raised his hand to slide his fingers through her hair. “It was only a question.”

Sansa looked up at him but he was focused on her hair as he continued to speak.

“The only night I’ve spent with a highborn lady – hells the only night I’ve ever spent with a woman at all – she was naked and talking about wanting to die in my arms. How should I know what Ladies wear to bed?”

Suddenly she felt horrible about bringing up Harry. Sandor was trying, she realized. He was out of his depth and trying. Sansa directed his other hand to her side. “Arya left the ties loose for you.”

“Did she make a comment about my sausage fingers?”

“How did you know!”

He chuckled, pulling the ties undone, careful not to apply pressure to her, or touch her in any way. “We spent a long time together in the Riverlands.”

The top wrap of the gown fell open and Sansa pointed to the inner ties, holding the bottom wrap to the top wrap at her other side, “Just a few more.”

“So many,” he mumbled.

“Probably as many as your armor has.”

“’t’s got buckles too.”

“And my dresses have snaps and buckles and ties too,” she teased. The gown now hung on her body like a wizard’s cloak from the stories Old Nan used to tell them when they were children. Sandor almost grinned. She started to shrug out of the garment. Sandor helped her until he was holding it and she was starting to shiver. “It goes on the hook on the corner of the bed, at the head. The side furthest from the door.”

“Why this side?” he asked, following her instructions.

“Mother always slept furthest from the door,” Sansa shrugged. “I guess it was father’s way of protecting her in the night? I really don’t know. They taught us a lot but not how to live our personal lives.”

“You mean to confess you don’t know what you’re doing?”

Sansa chuckled, nodding, “I have no clue! You saw me today. Jon had to _instruct_ me that you needed to be dismissed.”

“Do you know what to do behind closed doors though?” he wondered.

Sansa blushed. His question was innocent enough though specific in nature. “Yes, I do. I was married, after all. But only for no more than two turns of the moon. We were on the march for part of that so we had no routine. I had no home. Do _you_ know what to do behind closed doors, Sandor?”

“Aye, I know what dogs do to wolves,” he huffed. Then after a moment he added softly, “outside of fucking, I am untrained and without any knowledge.”

“How do you sleep Sandor?”

He grinned and unlaced his trousers. He kicked them off and shed his wool socks too. Raising his hands outwards he spun around, “ass naked.”

Sansa couldn’t help but stare, and compare. Sandor was big – which Sansa already knew, but seeing just him without armor or doublets emphasized his musculature. He was barreled and she could see each muscle ripple when he flexed. Compared to Sandor, Harry was but a young green boy in stature. Sansa couldn’t help but think that Sandor was the image of a strong Northman. Even in coloring too, he looked more of the North than that of the Westerlands. Where Harry had light, almost blonde hair in thin patches around his body, on his chest, back and … his ass, Sandor had a solid blanket of hair on his chest, with a stripe leading down to his manhood. His back was also constantly covered, though not thick. His legs were covered too and it tapered off higher up his thighs. Where Harry had thin wispy hair around his manhood, Sandor’s hair was thick around his half-erect manhood.

“If you keep staring like that, Little Bird, it’s going to get much bigger,” Sandor said, pulling Sansa from her thoughts.

She blushed and looked up to his eyes. “I feel the need to apologize but…”

“But?” he raised his eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest where his arms seemed to bulge.

Sansa swallowed and said, “I feel the need to apologize for staring but I am not – sorry that is.”

“You like what you see?” She knew instantly that his question was to be self-deprecating, but he had the truth of it.

“Yes,” she replied earnestly. “I do like what I see. I’m curious too.”

“Not horrified?”

“No. Curious,” she insisted. Sansa pointed to his arm, “if I’m not mistaken, those healed burns are new. The scar on your thigh, it’s worse than I could have imagined. Arya told me how it had festered. And I’ve seen you limp on the bad days. But it’s…”

“It’s not pretty.”

“No,” she agreed, “it’s not.”

“What about my face?” he rasped.

Again, Sansa knew what he was trying to do with his words. She wouldn’t let him. “For so long I wished I could see them, you, again.” She shrugged, “I hardly notice them anymore.”

Sandor face showed the shock he must have felt so when he didn’t say anything in reply, she plowed on. “And you have more scars than I ever considered possible. All over your body. Your body is a long story. A story that isn’t always happy. I want to know what’s happened to you.”

“Lots of fights. Lots of battles. Too many wars,” he growled. Anger was his defense; she had learned that when she was just a girl in the Capital. It didn’t bother her now. Instead, it clued her into what he was feeling.

“I hope that I have learned from the mistakes of my father and brother. I too am tired of war,” she agreed. “But I’m also curious about your body. Like a good little Lady, I always averted my eyes when the boys or men would run around Winterfell or the Godswood naked. I helped Mother with Bran and Rickon of course, but they were just babes. And I never cared to spend time staring at Harry. Not only did I want as little as possible to do with him but he just couldn’t hold up to the standard you set for every other man in my life. And I tried to do whatever I could to avoid staring at Lord Tyrion. I was so young and barely understood my role as a wife and it scared me. I often imagined it was you I married in King’s Landing, not Tyrion. I dreamed of you many times in the Vale—”

Suddenly Sandor was holding Sansa’s face, his palms on her jaw and his fingers raking through her hair. Instinctually Sansa raised her good arm and held his forearm. Sandor pressed his forehead to hers and whispered urgently, “If you keep talking about how you dreamed of me, Little Bird, I won’t be able to stop myself from _showing_ you what I dreamed about _you_.”

“You dreamed of me?”

“From before than I should have.”

“Sandor,” she whispered, a tear leaking from her eye, “if I let you in any further, I won’t survive you leaving again. If I let you in, you will be my Lord for true. Though I have come to love my brother dearly, I will not suffer the same fate as my mother; knowing that my father loved another woman for long enough to get her with child was her greatest burden. I choose _you_ and _only_ you Sandor. Tell me if I ask too much. I need you to choose me and _only_ me.”

Sandor increased the pressure from his hands but never enough to hurt her. He almost shook from the strength as he kissed away her tear. “I’ve dreamed of you for far too long Little Bird to let you fly away from my grasp. This dog is loyal to you and _only_ you.”

“You stay and be my Lord of Castle Clegane, consort to the Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North?”

“Aye,” he whispered, staring at her with his deep steel gray eyes. “I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me and I’ll be your Lord of Castle Clegane, consort to the Lady of Winterfell and Queen in the North.” He paused then growled, “why are you _crying_! I just told you I’m staying, you daft woman.”

Sansa sputtered a laugh, trying to raise her bandaged arm to wipe her nose on her shift. She winced at the pain up through her shoulder and quickly tried to conceal it, to no avail.

Sandor raised the collar of her shift to wipe her tears and shook his head. “Crying and now hurting yourself.”

“It’s _happy_ tears!” she laughed.

“My father cursed the day my sister was born. He kept muttering about girls and their tears.”

“What if I only give you daughters?” Sansa suddenly asked, worried. She bit her lip.

Sandor pulled back, leaving his hands on her shoulders but studied her face. “Then I’ll raise them like sons, just as the She-Bears of Mormont do.”

Sansa just laughed as she leaned forward and pressed her face into Sandor’s chest, rubbing her face against his hair. Sandor bent down and scooped her legs out from under her. He cradled her close to his chest and turned towards the bed.

“Which side, my Little Bird?”

“If I say near the door, you’ll still put me close the window, won’t you?”

Sandor nodded and laid her out gently. He easily hopped over her onto the bed after pulling back the furs. He turned to look at her seriously. “First rule of our life behind closed doors,” he said, “you will tell me when it is happy tears or sad tears.”

Sansa shook her head but agreed. “Now help me take off my shift.”

Sandor pulled the ties at her collarbone eagerly. He eased the material up her legs and out from under her before helping pull it over her head, taking care with her arm. When Sansa turned back from hanging it with her night dress, Sandor was staring at her body, his eyes dark and angry. She hadn’t considered how he might not like _her_ naked. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to put her shift back on without his help, she reached for the furs to cover herself. But Sandor snatched her wrist and stopped her.

His eyes roamed over her body and Sansa looked down. Her ankle was still wrapped with a small branch to keep her from moving it. Her foot, and halfway up to her knee, was swollen and red. Her knees were scraped and bruised. Compared to the dark black and blue and green bruise on her hip, her maiden hair was starkly orange. The stitches next to her navel held together one of a few stab wounds she’d received. Her torso and arms were motley colored between bruises and slashes. She was by no means pretty like this. But she’d fought in a battle and came out the other side. Many had not been as fortunate as her.

Sandor hovered his hand over every scab, tracing her wounds without touching her. He whispered, “This morning, when I helped you across the room…I didn’t see…I didn’t look. My Little Bird…”

“You don’t have to look,” she replied, again reaching for the furs. “I know it’s ugly.”

“No,” he barked, pushing her had away. Sandor turned on his side, snuggling up close to her with his stomach almost pressing against her arm and his softening manhood at her thigh. His arm folded held up his head as he stroked her collar bone. “You’re still beautiful. I just wish you weren’t injured.”

“I’ll still be your Little Bird with a few missing feathers?”

Sandor chuckled, “You could have your wings clipped and you’d still be my Little Bird.”

“Is it as bad as I think it is?” she wondered, motioning over her body. “I don’t trust Arya’s answers and the Woodswitch speaks only a little common tongue.”

Sandor sighed. Instead of answering her question, he asked, “Are you chilly?” He pulled the furs over them, up to her chest and over his elbow.

“No,” she replied honestly. “Not anymore. Now answer me.”

“You took one hell of a beating, Little Bird. But there’s nothing that you can’t recover from.”

“And if they scar?”

“Oh, I’ll have to ask you your secret if you don’t scar,” he chuckled. “Aye, they’ll scar but that won’t affect your appeal to me – if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Part of it,” she admitted while she yawned.

Sandor slid his arm under her neck and pressed himself to her while draping his arm over her body, fingering her ear. “Sleep now, Little Bird. You did too much today and there will only be more to do on the morrow.”

“We were supposed to talk counts,” she countered, feeling her eyes grow heavy.

Sandor tucked her head under his chin saying, “We’ll talk in the morning.”

After a moment, Sansa whispered, “You’re poking me Sandor.”

“Shhh,” he muttered. “If you don’t acknowledge it, eventually it’ll go away.”

“Doesn’t it hurt you if we don’t…?”

Sandor opened an eye. “If we don’t fuck?”

“Yes.”

He chuckled and muzzled his nose further into her hair. “No it doesn’t hurt.”

“Harry always complained—"

“Cunt was lying to you to have a willing and easy fuck,” Sandor growled.

He must have felt her breath hitch because he gave her a gentle squeeze. “Lots of cunts say that ‘cause women don’t know or aren’t taught. It doesn’t hurt, I promise you. While I would like to slide in you and have a good roll around,” Sandor bucked his hips to emphasize his point, “I can see plain as day how much your hurt. Nah, Little Bird, we’ll wait till you can be just as eager as I am. It’s more fun that way.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Sansa whispered as she closed her eyes. She fell asleep with Sandor all around her. His body all around her. His scent filling ever breath. His breath rocking her evenly.


	5. Chapter 5

“Damn it, Sansa!” he muttered, shaking her. “Wake up!”

She had woken him violently in the early hours of the morning with a knee to Sandor’s cock. She was thrashing around, whimpering, as though fighting someone in her dreams. When she started screaming and still didn’t wake, Sandor stood and limped to the door.

He opened it and barked to one of the guards, “Go grab the Woodswitch!” and to the other he barked, “find Lady Arya!”

Sandor waited only long enough for them to start running before he turned around and slammed the door on his way back to the bed. He smoothed back her hair only to feel how sweaty she was. The way she was moving, Sandor knew it was bad for her injuries.

“Come on Little Bird,” he urged, patting her cheek and trying to hold her arm down so that she wouldn’t strain her shoulder any more than she already had. “Hear my voice. Wake up, Little Bird, wake up!”

Arya was the first to arrive minutes later, throwing the door open. “Hound!”

“Just a nightterror,” Sandor growled back.

“It’s _not_ just a nightterror if you called for me!” she hissed, putting another log into the hearth and stoking the flame up. Light filled the room suddenly. Sandor blinked rapidly to adjust his eyes.

“I called you because I can’t wake her up,” he snarled. “She’s going to hurt herself. Is the Witch coming?”

“She’ll be here.” Sandor didn’t reply as Arya shook her sister more viciously than he’d ever dare, even if Sansa were awake and alert. “Sansa! Sansa wake up!”

Sansa only swiped at her sister, her hand in a strange position. Arya easily avoided the swing by taking a step backwards. “That’s a lunge,” she murmured.

Then it clicked in Sandor’s mind. Sansa was fighting in her nightterror. Her hand was curved around her sword, at least in her mind, as she slashed at…who was she fighting?

The door opened again to admit the Woodswitch and Jon Snow.

“What happened Clegane?” the bastard demanded. “What did you do to her?”

“She kneed me in the cock if that’s what you’re asking,” he said, rolling his eyes. “She’s in a nightterror and won’t wake up.”

The witch was muttering to herself as she pulled a vial from her satchel. She lit a candle and held the vial above the small flame for a few minutes.

“Where is her granddaughter?” Arya asked Jon. “She translates for her. What is she saying?”

“Berla is finishing an amputation that Nonda was in the middle of when she was summoned,” Jon explained. “I can understand enough of what she’s saying.”

“Then tell us,” Sandor barked, momentarily looking away from Sansa to glance at her brother.

“Something about the dead holding her … life in the other world?” Jon spoke slowly, his brow furled as he tried to hear everything the witch was saying. “No, not life… her soul maybe?”

The witch withdrew the vial from the candle flame and pulled the stopper. A pungent oder filled the room, causing even Sandor to almost gag. The witch, Nonda, said something to him, holding his gaze with her bright green eyes.

“Up,” Jon translated. “I think she needs you to sit Sansa up.”

Sandor nodded and lifted Sansa easily. He pulled her back flush against his chest and wrapped his arms around her. Nonda nodded approvingly.

“Watch her head,” Jon translated as Nonda leaned over them and held the vial up to Sansa’s nose. She blew in her face and said some more words. But Jon shook his head, “I don’t understand that. A chant or healing words, I think. In an older tongue that I can even place.” He paused as Nonda spoke to Sandor again, then said, “Watch your head.”

A moment of relative silence passed where Sandor held his breath and Arya and Jon looked on with apprehension. Then, Sansa shrieked in a way that sent Sandor back to the day at the Great Sept of Baelor when Joffrey had sentenced Eddard Stark to death. Her body seized up, ceasing to move for a moment.

Nonda spoke urgently at him, the same words over and over. Jon didn’t need to translate. Sandor pulled his head away from Sansa’s just as her body started shaking. Every muscle seized and released over and over again, but Sansa no longer screamed. The absence of sound was so sudden that it echoed in Sandor’s ears. Nonda was pointing at Arya and Jon was trying to guess what she was saying.

“A blanket. Bedding. A towel. No,” Jon rubbed his scruff on his face in frustration. “Something to do with water and picking it up.”

“She means that Sansa’s bladder will empty at any moment,” Sandor realized. He’d seen this shaking sickness only a few times before, but always had the sick one pissed themselves. “Quickly!” he barked. “Towels or anything to absorb her urine!”

Arya spun around and threw open a cupboard, tossing towels at her brother. Nonda helped Sandor lift Sansa’s hips enough to fold them under her. Soon enough, Sandor was right. And still, Sansa shook.

As the minutes passed, Sansa’s body slowly relaxed until the spasms were infrequent and not very big. Nonda and Arya carefully cleaned Sansa up. The witch had to restitch the stab wound in Sansa’s side, all the while mumbling to Jon.

“I don’t understand everything,” Jon said, holding the basin of water and oils for her, “but it sounds like she’s worried about more injuries or worse injuries. When Berla is done, I’ll get better information.”

Sandor just nodded. He still sat behind Sansa, holding her, unable to stop himself from rocking ever so slightly side to side.

Jon eventually left followed soon by Arya. “Take care of her, Hound,” she threatened before disappearing into the dark castle.

Sandor was left alone with Nonda who proceeded with checking every inch of Sansa’s body. He watched the witch closely; not because he thought she might her his Little Bird, but because if he didn’t, his mind would wander. Nonda straightened as much as her elderly back would allow and began to fuss about the room. She stoked up the fire so hot that Sandor could feel the heat on his face. He was incapable of not flinching.

“Fire fight dead ones,” Nonda said she turned around, wiping her hands on her apron. Her green eyes penetrated Sandor’s gray ones.

“The dead ones are gone,” he replied after clearing his throat.

“With now,” she said. “Not in.”

Nonda pointed to her head then pointed to Sansa.

“Are you saying they’re in her head?” Sandor asked, tightening his arms around Sansa just a little bit more. “That’s not possible. It was just a nightterror.”

“Terror,” she agreed. Nonda approached the bed and cupped Sandor’s burned cheek. “Fire kissed you.”

“No kiss has ever been so painful,” he confessed.

“Dead one kiss queen from children and fire,” Nonda whispered, placing her hand over Sansa’s face. “More than body pain in queen.”

Nonda suddenly gave Sandor’s bare thigh a pat, “Love queen. Make queen glow. Give queen seed.”

And then she was closing the door, leaving Sandor along with Sansa.

Nearing dawn, if there were no clouds and the sun could be seen, Sansa screamed again and tried to untangle herself from Sandor’s grasp. A banging on the door quickly followed. Sandor pulled away from Sansa, though she didn’t scream a second time. Her eyes were open, darting about the ceiling. The banging continued.

“M’lord! M’Lord!” a man called. “M’Lady?”

Sandor opened the door, rubbing his eyes in the light of the guard’s torch. “No need to sound the alarm.”

“A scream…”

“Lady Stark was only startled when she woke.”

“Shall I send for Lady Arya?”

Sandor snorted at hearing the wolf girl called a _lady_. “No. All is well.”

“Very good, m’lord.” The man didn’t seem confident in his answer.

“What’s your name?” Sandor asked.

“Dannys m’Lord. No house name. Was a farmer before all the wars started.”

“How long have you been on duty?”

“Lord Commander put me on all night.”

“Go ask the Lord Commander for a replacement. You need sleep.”

“I’ll be a’right, m’lord.”

“Lady Stark commands it,” Sandor easily lied.

“And she’s… is m’lady a’right?” he wondered. Dannys quickly corrected himself, “Sorry, m’lord. ‘t’s none of my business.”

Sandor eyed the man for a moment. “You’ve fought in the wars?”

“Never saw heavy fighting,” he confessed.

“Have you ever seen a battle as the one we fought here?”

Dannys shook his head. “Never heard of one like it, neither. Not even from my old gran who told us stories from her gran’s gran.”

“That’s right. Lady Stark fought along side the soldiers.”

“M’Lady?” he asked, eyes wide.

Sandor nodded once. “The Lady Stark has never been in a war, never seen a battle. Not till now. Her dreams are of dead things and men dying.”

“I don’ blame her for screamin’,” Dannys confessed. “Wish I could scream too.”

“Go on now, go get some rest. Tell Lord Commandor that Lady Stark and Lord Clegane order it. The Lady Stark requests your guardianship every night. Best sleep be alert for tonight.”

Dannys stood a little straighter. “Aye, m’lord. But I don’t want to leave m’lady un-guarded.”

“I’ve got my sword with me,” Sandor had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “She’ll be safe while the guard changes.”

“Very good, m’lord.” Dannys gave an awkward bow before turning down the hall.

Sandor closed the door, shaking his head. He made his way back to the bed, chuckling at the man who was surely his senior by at least five years, if not more.

“Sandor?”

Sandor stopped at the edge of the mattress and looked at his lady. He smiled at her voice. “The Little Bird wakes,” he rasped, leaning over to kiss her forehead.

“Did I hear you give orders for Lady Stark?”

Sandor shrugged, “Figured you wouldn’t mind if take this lordship of yours seriously.”

“On matters that I am ill-equiped for,” she agreed.

“And matters beneath your station,” he insisted. “Delegate to ease your load.”

“Sandor?” she asked, her blue eyes sparkling. “I hurt, I hurt so much. Something’s wrong. Send for the Woodswitch.”

“She was here earlier, Little Bird,” he said, crawling next to her.

“Why? Something’s wrong. It hurts. I can’t move, it hurts too much. Please get her.” Tears trickled down as she started go breath rapidly.

“I will if you insist,” he promised. “But you hurt because you had the shaking sickness last night.”

Sansa held her breath. “Like Sweetrobin?”

Sandor shook his head. He had seen the shaking sickness in soldiers and he had seen little Robin Aryn have his fits in court. “No, a different shaking. You’re alright now. Nonda will check on you later.”

“I’m okay?” she wondered.

Sandor sat against the head of the bed. Gently he pulled her so she was leaning against his chest, her head in the crook of his arm. Sandor tucked the furs around them. “You’re just sore. This shaking sickness is every muscle spasming at once.”

Sansa just nodded, closing her eyes for a while. Then she exclaimed, “Sandor! You need to get up. You have things to do!”

“What do I need to be doing, Little Bird?” he murmured, his cheek on the crown of her head.

“Things,” she sputtered. “I still don’t know what your duties are.”

“My duty is to take care of you now,” he replied. “Unless you order me away, accept my help and be done with it.”

“Don’t leave,” she whispered.

Sandor almost smiled at her words. But he had to ask, “Little Bird?”

“Hmm,” she hummed.

“What happened down in the crypts?”

Sansa didn’t respond and Sandor didn’t push. He only readjusted a bit and held her tighter. An hour later, a light knock came on the door.

“Come in,” Sandor commanded.

A young handmaid came in with a tray. She only blinked at seeing Sandor’s undressed torso and Sansa’s bare shoulders. “Where would you like to break your fast, m’lord, m’lady?”

“The table next to us,” he answered.

The girl curtsied and quickly crossed the room. She placed the tray on the table and turned to open the curtains. She picked up the empty water jug and soiled chamber pot. “Shall I prepare to dress you m’lady?”

She hadn’t realized Sansa was sleeping still.

“She’ll just wear her shift today,” Sandor said. “Lady Stark is still recovering from her injuries in the battle and will likely spend the day in bed.”

“Shall I grab the maester?”

“No,” Sansa yawned. “Tell Maester Samwell that we’ll go over ledgers this afternoon here.”

“Yes, m’lady.” The girl curtsied again and left the room.

When the door latched, Sansa said, “the dead rose.”

Sandor’s head jumped to look down at her. Sansa’s eyes were closed, her lips pursed. But she continued. “After the sixth day, the dead rose from their graves. They came for us and those who died quickly rose to join their attack on us. I fought them. I fought my ancestors. I fought them with everything I could. I used the knowledge Arya had taught me – the way you showed me how to hold my sword, my dagger, and how to move with them. But there were so many. Only I could stop them, it seemed. Those who had gone down with us, who could fight, tried. We quickly learned that all they could do was keep them away from us while I rested. I only slept an hour or two at a time. I had to keep fighting. I had to stop them from killing everyone. The dead rose and I fought them.”

Her voice drifted out as she stopped speaking. Sandor tried to keep his breath even, trying to process everything she’d told him. It seemed obvious now that the battle was done, that those long dead and buried might rise with the Others. They had sent the women and children, young, old and feeble, down to the crypts for safety. But instead they’d shut them up in a fighting pit worse than any he’d ever heard of. It was no wonder that in her sleep, Sansa dreamed of the dead things coming to get her.

“You can’t tell,” Sansa said.

“Why not?”

“If you tell, the men will only ask the survivors about it. We do not wish to speak of it. We relive it enough when we close our eyes, even for a moment.”

“I won’t tell the men,” Sandor agreed. “But I will tell your brother and sister.”

“No!”

Sandor kept her from jerking away from him, from hurting herself more. “They will not ask you about it and they will not tell anyone else. But as Starks, the need to know.”

Sansa eased back against him, nodding finally.

“We should at least partially dress, when you’re feeling up for it,” Sandor said eventually.

“Not yet,” she begged.

He had no intention of going against her wishes. Ever. “Not yet,” he agreed.

“Tell me about the state of my castle, Sandor. Tell me about the work that we have to do.”

“Are you comfortable?” he asked. Sansa nodded, turning slightly so that more of her front was pressed against his side. He began to tell her everything he could. She asked questions here and there and repeated numbers back to him. Jon and Arya came to check on her at some point and gave her more information. She gave them orders in return. They spent the day in bed, recovering and talking, lying beside one another naked as their name days.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been more than a month since the war with the Others ended. Sansa is finally well enough to tour what has been destroyed in her childhood home and meet the men and women newly appointed to positions to make the castle run smoothly. 5345 Words.

Sansa blinked rapidly as the icy wind hit her face. She all but turned towards Jon’s shoulder to protect herself. He chuckled as they stepped out into the inner yard. The first time for Sansa in quite a while.

“You were in the South for too long, sweet sister. I don’t remember you letting the cold get to you when we were children.”

“My time away has little to do with it,” she replied, pulling his arm closer to her as she hugged herself against his side – partially to keep the wind off herself and partially to lean on him so that her limp was less pronounced. “I’ve spent the past moon’s turn in my chamber, nearly confined to my bed. Sandor sides with Maester Samwell and they keep my hearth hot nearly all the time. But really!” she exclaimed. “Does this wind not bite you to the bone?”

Jon gave her hand a pat as they walked towards the armory. “I suppose, but there’s nothing here that is quite like standing on the edge, atop the Wall in a storm. Or the Frost Fangs, for that matter.” As an afterthought he added, “I’ve never felt Winterfell any colder than it was when the Other’s came.”

Sansa looked away, pausing to watch the smiths, in only linen tunics despite the snow and wind, as they worked on repairing armor and other weapons. The blacksmith was fixing shoes for the horses.

“Forgive me Sansa,” Jon said, tugging to keep her walking, “I know you don’t like talking about the battle. I wish you would.”

“Some Others got into the crypts,” she easily lied. It had been Sandor’s idea when she refused to tell Jon and Arya about her own battle against the dead. _It’s not a complete lie,_ he had told her as he ran the washing cloth down her back while she sat in the repaired tin tub, _they_ did _get into the crypts. But what you’re not saying is that they were already there._ He had been right. It satisfied her family enough for them to stop pressuring her for answer. It also satisfied the lords and advisors around her. She added, “they came, and I had to fight, just like you. I wasn’t built for war Jon. Not like you. Not like Robb. Not like Arya. It was…scarier for me, I suppose.”

They spoke with the Master of Arms and Arya’s friend, the Smith. The tanner and the gamesman too. She met more men than she could keep straight. Old men, young men, some men who Sansa would have called _boys,_ and even a few women. Jon had filled many of the positions that they had immediate need of filling. Now that Nonda allowed her to leave her chamber, it was time she greeted her people, as their Lady. She would also be tasked with naming others to fill the vacant jobs, if they had any hope of surviving the winter with minimal losses. Sansa listened to all of their reports and their complaints, while having her steward make notes of supplies that they needed.

When they entered the stables, Sansa let go of her brother and crossed the hall on her own to sit heavily on a bale of hay. She leaned her head against the wall behind her, allowing herself to close her eyes, for only a moment. Hushed whisperings caused her to open her eyes lazily and look towards the door. Jon was talking with a set of five soldiers. When he was done, they nodded. Two exited through the door. Before it shut, she saw them take sentry positions on either side of the door. One remained inside, but next to the door. She knew the stance well; leveled head, relaxed shoulders, loose unlocked knees, arms at his side with one resting lightly on the pommel of his sword, eyes that appeared to be unfocused though they saw everything. He was a guard. The fourth and fifth men crossed the stables, walking right in front of her but paid her no mind. The soldiers exited the stables and, if Sansa’s guess was correct, they were standing guard there too. Sansa did not see the equerry or any grooms around, so when Jon turned towards her, she snapped at him.

“Guards Jon! Really? Guards!? This is Winterfell. This is my _home_. I have no need to be followed around by a guard, let alone _five_ of them! Two on each entrance and one inside? Plus you! Father never had guards on us as children!”

“Really Sansa? Do you expect the _Lady_ of Winterfell to not have guards with her?”

“Exactly!” she cried, taking off her gloves. Now that they were out of the wind, and inside with many horses, she was warming up. “No one would dare—”

“Plenty would dare!” Jon shouted back. “I was killed by my own men! Even as Lord Commander I should have had at least one guard with me. And Ghost. But you don’t have Lady to stay at your side. Five well trained, hand-picked men are hardly a replacement for a loyal Direwolf, but it’s a good start.”

“Send them away!”

Jon sighed, rubbing his temples.

“Jon send them away,” she growled. “This is Winterfell – my _home_. I am safe here!”

“Just like Bran and Rickon were?!” he bellowed at her.

“I’m not a child!”

“You are the Lady of Winterfell, the heir to the North!”

“Send them away!”

“Ah leave him alone, Little Bird.”

Sansa’s head snapped to the side to see Sandor leaning on his forearms, standing in a stall. He had a brush in his hand and his cloak was thrown over the gate. He’d pulled his hair out of his face to work and had tied it in a knot at the back of his head. Sandor swiped his forearm over his forehead. She glared at him when really she wanted to kiss his sweaty face.

“Send them away Sandor. Now.”

“That’s not going to happen, Little Bird,” he said, pushing the gate open. His warhorse Stranger tried to follow him but the warrior gave him a little push and the horse stepped back into the stall.

Sansa stood and turned towards the lone guard in the room. “Thank you for your service, but you won’t be needing to stand on my guard anymore.”

The guard swallowed heavily and looked between her and Sandor but didn’t move.

“If I were my father, Lord Eddard, or my brother, King Robb, would you hesitate to obey a direct command?” Sansa demanded.

“No, m’lady,” the guard admitted. “But, if I may speak…”

“Go on,” she allowed.

“If Lord Clegane were standing behind Lord Stark or King Robb, as he is to you now, and had been the one to give me my orders, I would hesitate to heed even them.”

From behind her Sandor snorted triumphantly.

“You didn’t get your orders from the Lord Commander?” Sansa asked, motioning to her brother.

“No, m’lady.”

Sansa spun on Sandor and poked a finger in his chest. “Send them away Sandor, since my men seem to listen to you instead of me.”

“No.”

“Jon?”

“I had suggested that Clegane _one_ guard for you. Even Father had one guard with him at all times,” he added quickly before she could argue.

“Then why are there _five_?”

“Clegane, care to take that one?” Jon asked him.

Sansa crossed her arms over her chest, waiting.

Sandor raised his chin and visibly resigned himself to answering her. The way he squared his shoulders told her that he would answer her, even in front of the guard and her brother, no matter what the answer was. “I will not let anything happen to you, Little Bird – I promised you that night you sang to me.”

Sansa shifted her weight onto the other leg, ignoring the pain screaming up her leg from her ankle. She had always thought…did he remember the Blackwater in the same way she did? Sansa couldn’t look away from his eyes.

“I have you now and in ways I never dreamed were possible. I will not lose you now. I will not lose you. Not again.”

Sansa found her chest heaving as she fought for breath. Her chin quivered.

“What is your name, ser?” she called to the guard, trying hard to glare at Sandor. His verbal admission of care for her, in front of subordinates and her brother, nonetheless, made it very difficult to keep her face straight and her hands off of him.

“Terrynce, m’Lady, Terrynce Stone.” That sparked her interest.

“From the Vale?”

“A tiny village in the northern mountains.”

“How were you trained? You must fight well to be chosen as one of my guard.”

“I learned to fight young against the Mountain Clans. I’ve gotten plenty of practice since I was a boy. Many wars and fights against both the living and the dead.”

Sansa sighed and dropped her head, hands on her hips. “ _Five_ Sandor?” she asked.

“Until the Dragons leave,” he said, dropping his voice.

Jon could probably still hear him, but it was better that no one else knew how little they trusted the Queen. And if someone were to hear the sentiment, she hoped that they would assume he meant the beasts the Queen brought with her. Afterall, most guessed that it was fire that gave him his scars.

Sansa ground her teeth. Five was still too many.

“When the Dragon leaves,” he repeated as if reading her mind, “I’ll back it down to three men.”

“Sandor…” she warned.

A knock on the door came and Jon’s squire stuck his head in, palpably cutting the tension in the room. “Lord Commander, you’re needed.”

“I’ll be right there Efran,” her brother replied. “Clegane?”

“Aye, I’ll help her back.”

Sansa threw up her arms, growling in frustration, and limped to the other end of the stables. Passing her off like a child who needed to be watched! It infuriated her! Her brother and her consort, conspiring to rule over her as if she were weak. As if she were a woman. As if she couldn’t protect herself! But she had, hadn’t she? During the Battle with the Dead and even after all of these years. _She_ was the only one she could—

“Little Bird…”

Sansa looked over her shoulder to find Sandor standing a few steps away, watching her closely. Wisely he kept his distance, though Sansa knew she could never overpower him or even bruise him. But she could try. And he knew that.

Sansa shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “Sandor, why must you two conspire against me? Why must you pass me off as if you are my wetnurses?”

“Only because this is the first day that you’re walking about.”

“Second.”

“You didn’t leave your chamber yesterday.”

“The morning after you spent the night for the first time,” she reminded him, while tryig to remind herself that she was supposed to be angry with him.

“Doesn’t count,” he gruffed. “We didn’t know the extent of your injuries then. Regardless, as the Lady of Winterfell, whose people are still at war with the Iron Throne, you must have guards.”

“FUCK YOU AND YOUR GUARDS,” she screamed at him suddenly not caring if others saw her tears. And by the Gods, screaming felt good. It felt so good. “WHERE WERE YOU WHEN I NEEDED HELP? WHERE WERE THE GUARDS? YOU LEFT ME ALONE IN THEIR DEN WHILE THE GUARDS BEAT ME. YOU DON’T HAVE THE RIGHT TO, TO, TO…”

Turning away to barge out the back door, Sansa’s heel caught an uneven rock in the floor. Her healing ankle was no match. She crumpled to the ground with a small, surprised “oh!”. Sobbing she hugged her arm to her chest and tried to stifle the sounds escaping from her mouth.

He was next to her then, kneeling on one knee and balancing on the other foot, enveloping her in him. Sandor wrapped his arms around her chest and held her as she nearly hyperventilated.

In a softer voice than before he added, “I’m worried about you, Little Bird.”

That only made her cry harder, this time squeezing his arm to her chest, silently begging him to stay with her.

Sandor buried his face in her neck as he flexed, deepening their embrace. To her skin he whispered, “I’ve never seen you so…defeated, Little Bird. I don’t know…” then his words came pouring out and Sansa felt a wetness on her skin. “I don’t know how to make you strong again. I don’t know how to protect you from the demons inside your own head. I can’t wave a hand and have all of your injuries disappear. I won’t let you suffer alone – I _can_ make sure of that.”

Sandor withdrew his arms causing a protest whine to slip from her throat. He didn’t go far though. Sandor knelt in front of her this time, one knee next to her and the other foot planted on the other side of her legs. He yanked off his gloves and cupped each side of her face. Sansa snapped her hands to lay on top of his, holding him in place.

“I only know how to do one thing – and it’s the only thing I’ve ever known how to do. I can fight. I can train. Let me train your men,” he gave her a little shake as he begged. “Let me train those cunts into the best fucking fighters this world has ever seen. Let me surround you with men who are almost as good as I am, so that they can protect you while I am trying to take away this invisible pain that you are in. Let them be your guard so I can focus on you. Let me protect you.”

The _please_ was unspoken but Sansa heard it loud and clear in any case. She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling their bodies flush against one another. She clutched as his jerkin and his hair, unable to get close enough to soothe the aching in her chest.

After a while – Sansa couldn’t have guessed how long – Sandor pulled back just enough to kiss her temple. His eyes asked her though words never left his mouth, _are you okay?_

“But why _five_?” she asked in response.

“Just until the Dragon leaves, Little Bird,” he repeated from earlier. “Though they fought the dead with us, but we do not know these men. We cannot completely trust these men.”

“And you trust these random men that you’re pulled together to follow me around?” she asked, leaning forwards to rest her forehead on his collarbone.

“Aye, better than I trust the Dragon Queens people.”

“How?” she wondered. “You don’t trust anyone easily.”

“They come personally chosen.”

“That’s cryptic, Sandor Clegane,” she said pulling back.

“Lord Snow chose a few, Arya chose a few, the Ginger wildling chose a few.”

“And you?” she wondered. “Did you choose any?”

“I chose all of them Little Bird. Once those closest to you made their picks, I had my turn with them. Many didn’t make it. Only about twenty did.”

Sansa opened her eyes wide. “What did you do to these men?” she asked.

“There are some women too,” Sandor replied grudgingly. “They were thoroughly interviewed, and they were thoroughly physically tested.”

Sansa sighed. “Did any come close to beating you?”

“One or two.”

“Who?”

“There is a shieldmaiden from the Mountain clans – I’ve put her on you night watch. Small thing. Fast too.”

“Why did you choose her?”

“Her flexibility and speed,” he replied. “I’ve never seen anyone move on ice and snow the way she does. She’s nigh on silent in the dark.”

“And the other?”

“You’ve already met him.”

“Terrynce?”

“Aye.”

“I doubt my siblings would have known who he is.”

“They didn’t. He was who I brought in.”

“Why?”

“I saw him fight during the battle. I’ve trained with him. Never had solid meals before. Once he does, he may grow stronger than I am. He’ll be loyal to you till the day he dies.”

“But why even consider him?”

“He’d already taken to following you around, even before the battle. Thought he might be eyeing you wrong or one of Cersei’s assassins out to kill you, so I followed _him_. But he never approached you. He stood guard – with shit posture, mind you – but was always there. Posture can be corrected and learned. Loyalty and dedication like that cannot.”

“I never noticed,” Sansa whispered, sitting back trying to think, trying to remember.

Sandor nearly smiled at that. “That’s why you need guards, Little Bird.”

“I can learn to be more observant! I can do better!” she hissed, trying to pull her arm out of his grasp.

Sandor didn’t let her. “Aye, you could, but you didn’t notice him Little Bird, not because you weren’t paying attention. On the contrary. You have a castle to run, and kingdom to govern and rebuild. You had an impossible battle to prepare for. You were paying attention to the things that you are good at, the things that deserve your attention the most.”

“I still have so much to do,” she let her shoulders sag under the weight of everything.

“Aye, I doubt you’ll ever have a day of leisure again. But that is why you have guards. You need to be safe to do your duty. You cannot do right by your brother’s people, by your people, if you are always half looking over your shoulder. Let your guard do that for you.”

Sansa pondered his words for a bit. When she looked up from her hands, she was tired, drained. “I’ve been working up the courage to ask you to be my sworn shield.”

Sandor barked out a laugh, throwing his head back.

“Do you mock me?” she gasped.

“No, Little Bird,” Sandor replied still grinning. He curled his fist around the braid in her hair and moved his hand down, so the hair slid against his skin; almost as if he were petting her hair. “I laugh because I am only thinking of what your siblings would say if you told them that your sworn shield was sharing your bed at night – no matter how innocent those nights are.”

“You’re right, the nights haven’t progressed passed innocent. I wasn’t sure if…”

“If I still desired you in that way?” he asked, cocking his head to the side in order to catch her eye.

Sansa nodded, quickly looking at him before glancing away.

“If you weren’t still healing, and if it weren’t far below water freezing out here,” Sandor growled, pressing his nose to her ear, “I’d take you into a clean and empty stall and take you as mine.”

Sansa’s head jerked up at his words, searching his eyes for a lie. There were none. The hunger in his eyes had her breathing heavily. “Sandor, you know I’m not a maiden.”

“Aye,” he replied leaning in to kiss her jaw under her ear. “But I’m a green boy to you and you’re a maiden to me. It will be the first for us together.”

Sansa couldn’t help but giggle as he nipped at her skin with his teeth. She guided his head until his lips hovered above her own. Though her eyes were closed, Sansa could feel his breath become her own. She couldn’t help but remember that night when the bay burned green. She had thought he would kiss her then. She had _hoped_ he would kiss her, she later realized. But when she closed her eyes, he had pulled away, dropped his cloak – the one she now wore – and disappeared into the night. In fright and sorrow, Sansa had crawled beneath the stained white fabric, wishing he would come back for her.

“Sandor?” she suddenly asked.

“Mmm,” he answered.

“When I closed my eyes,” she whispered, “I’ve often wondered if you thought I didn’t want to see your face; if I was scared of you.”

“What are you chirping about Little Bird?” he wondered, his fist tightening around the hair at the nape of her neck. Shivers went down her spine and she suppressed a moan.

“The night I thought you kissed me, in Kings Landing.”

Sandor pulled away and Sansa’s face was suddenly cold without his breath. She opened her eyes. He was staring at her, his face pulled together as he tried to puzzle out her words. “I wanted to kiss you many times. But it was never proper and you were a child.”

“The night you left,” she told him, “for a long time after I thought you had kissed me. I _wish_ you would have kissed me. If that was the last time that I was ever going to see you – I didn’t know if you were dead or had run off to Essos – I wanted to have the memory, knowing that you loved me. But instead of kissing me, you tore your cape off and disappeared from me until a chance encounter in the middle of nowhere.”

“You closed your eyes,” Sandor whispered after a moment, as if that were explanation enough.

“That’s what one does when she is going to be kissed.”

“I only remember the fright on your face at seeing my scars up close the first time. It made sense to me that you’d close your eyes if I were going to force a kiss on you.”

“Closing my eyes meant that it wasn’t forced,” she breathed, pulling his face closer to hers again. “But you were affected by the Wild Fire and drunk on top of that. I never blamed you.”

“I wanted to drown the memories.”

“I know,” Sansa whispered. “But now you know that I was never frightened of your scars.”

“In the beginning you were.”

Sansa sighed, “Yes, I’ll admit to that. I was a protected young Lady from the North. I’d never seen _burn_ scars like that. Cuts and scrapes were the worse I’d ever seen. Your mangled face hid a kind and true heart. I came to understand that. Your scars are a part of you. I wish you had never been burned. I wish you could have been spared a lifetime of torment. But I can’t change that, Sandor. I can only love what I have in front of me.”

Sandor’s eyes were glassy as he held on to each of her words.

Sansa leaned in more. “I am going to close my eyes now,” she whispered, hoping that he would grasp her meaning. With her eyes closed, all she heard was her own breathing and the horses stirring in their stalls.

One of Sandor’s hands grabbed her neck and jaw roughly but never painfully, his fingers nearly reaching ear to ear on her. The other hand was tangling itself in her hair even more, pulling. Then his lips were on hers, tentative and unsure. Sansa did allow herself to moan then. She mimicked his movements by running her fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp. He groaned right back at her and Sansa took the opportunity to open her mouth and nibble on his bottom lip. Sandor gasped and pulled away. Sansa opened her eyes long enough to see his pupils blown wide before he dove back in, his kiss now confident and eager.

The real deal was better than any fantasy she had ever imagined for herself. Many nights she had imagined that Sandor was her wedded husband in bed with her the night of her first marriage in King’s Landing. The ways she thought about him kissing her at the Blackwater, the forced kisses Littlefinger gave her, the months she endured Harry’s slobbery kisses as she did her duty, none held in comparison to actually feeling his lips upon hers. Unexperienced but eager to learn and explore. Soft and slightly chapped but taught and limited where he had been burned. When his tongue asked for entry, she granted it without hesitation, melting in ways she had only heard Myranda tell her about.

“M’Lady? M’Lord?” Tarrynce called out, causing Sandor to jerk back and shield Sansa in his arms.

“What is it?” Sandor barked, his chest heaving and causing Sansa’s head to rise and fall with it.

“The afternoon Patrol has returned. They’ll be needing to untack their horses.”

“Allow them in,” he commanded.

“Yes m’lord,” the guard replied. The stable door opened, and a biting wind swept around them on the floor, kicking up hay and dirt.

Sansa shivered involuntarily.

“Let’s get you back to your chamber,” Sandor urged, standing and pulling Sansa to her feet. She tried to equally place her weight on both feet, but her ankle protested. Sandor caught her when she teetered. “This excursion was too much too soon, Little Bird.”

“No,” she argued. “When I fell, it was because of a stone I stepped on. It’s angered my ankle. I was fine until then.”

“All the more reason to get you back so you can rest.”

“No,” she said raising her chin. “I am not a child to be sent to bed.”

“But you will go back to the keep,” he said, straightening his shoulders.

“I have more subjects to meet with.”

“Finish the meetings tomorrow.”

Before Sansa could respond, more than three dozen men and horses were walking into the stables. Sansa’s five guards were all now standing inside, watching the men. The patrol’s chatter faded as they saw their liege Lady standing to the side, observing them. The men bowed their heads and a few even took to a knee. The remained nearly frozen in place until Sandor nudged her elbow and raised his eyebrow at her.

Then Sansa understood.

“Rise,” she commanded gently. The men obeyed but remained stationary, staring at her from behind scarves and hoods pulled tight around their faces. Sansa wondered where they all came from and who they were. Instead of asking, she said, “Thank you, my lords, for patrolling this day. When your horses have been cared for, join me in my hall for warm stew and mead. I want to hear your reports.”

There was silence for a moment before a lanky man, even wrapped up for winter, stepped forwards. “Thank you, m’Lady. But we are used to grabbing a bite from the kitchens and reporting to the Lord Commander and Lord Clegane,” he said, nodding to Sandor at her side.

“That was well and fine when I was unable to hear the reports myself,” Sansa said parrying. “I would like to sit and have meal with you and hear your stories. The Lord Commander and Lord Clegane will also be there, as well as Maester Samwell and my steward. I have mended enough from the battle to sit among my people. Will you allow me this courtesy?”

The men glanced at each other and passed her to Sandor, before all nodding and bowing their heads once more. The lanky man spoke again, “that is very kind of you, Lady Stark. We would be honored. Allow us to wash up before we join you.”

Sansa cocked her head but in her peripheral, Sandor’s face was unreadable. She was on her own in this moment. She could not ask him what was expected of her so she had no choice but to forge her own path. “Answer me this and speak freely: did you serve under my father or brother?”

“No, m’Lady,” the lanky man replied. “I was with the Tallharts. A couple of us were new soldiers under Lord Stark. Ruban there,” the man pointed to another with only a partial arm, “served with King Robb.”

“And the rest of you?”

The men replied in a rumble of Houses throughout the North that they had served under though some were just farmers or other laborers who had sought refuge in Winterfell.

“Then allow me another question,” Sansa said holding up her hand, causing silence to fall once more. “Would you have asked to wash before meeting with my Lord Father, or my brother King Robb? Or any other lords you may have served under?”

After a moment Ruban replied, “No, Princess. We would untack the horses and join them in their hall as requested.”

Sansa couldn’t swallow at the title that she had never been given when her brother had been crowned King in the North. Sandor gave her elbow a gentle squeeze to pull her from her thoughts. She nodded, hoping her face had remained neutral.

“I may not be a man,” she said, “but I am Lady Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, and Warden of the North.”

“Wardeness,” Sandor muttered under her breath. She ignored him and hoped that the others hadn’t heard his correction.

Ruban spoke up just as Sandor had. “Perhaps you may call yourself Wardeness of the North, but you are still our Princess, Lady Sansa.”

She didn’t know how he knew, but Sandor tightened his grip on her arm to keep her standing in front of her men.

“You are kind, Ruban,” she replied diplomatically. “The Queen considers the seat in Winterfell as the position of Warden. Though I may be a woman, I expect you all to continue as if I were my father or my brother, as if I were a man. I may wear skirts instead of trousers but that does not mean you must be clean faced and fresh to give me your reports. I expect you all to not hold back details for fear of ‘a woman’s tender heart.’ Because I can assure you, I have seen nigh as much as you of the cruelties of this world. If you doubt my strength, remember that I was mere steps away from Lord Eddard Stark when he was beheaded. I have no need of men who treat me as less than they would if I were a man. If you cannot accept this, leave now and go in peace.”

No man made a move or a sound. Sansa nodded in acceptance of their fealty. “Good, then care for your horses and I will await you in my private hall with a hot meal and drink. Dismissed.”

As the men began to disperse to different stalls in the stables, Sansa’s guards came to stand on either side of her. She watched for a moment then said softly to Sandor, “go grab your cloak, my Lord. Escort me to my table.”

“The men would be honored to walk with you,” he replied.

“The men will have to wait for that honor,” she replied, keeping her shoulder squared. “Though none left, it will take time to accept me as they would accept my male predecessors. They must learn.”

“The Little Bird is a quick study,” he mused with a hint of teasing in his voice.

“Besides,” she said ignoring him, “it would not rouse any respect from them if they were to see their Lady limping along, close to being unable to walk. No, I would like to slip out while they are distracted with their tasks.”

Sandor turned to step in front of her. He looked down, studying her face closely. “How much pain, Little Bird?”

“Enough that I would like to sit sooner rather than later. I can manage a walk though.”

“Your face hardly betrays you.”

“I was going for no hint whatsoever,” she replied, finally looking up at him.

“Only because I know you so well. Then men don’t suspect a thing.”

“Good.” Sansa nodded. “Go grab your things, Sandor.”

“Terrynce,” Sandor said and then the Vale-man was at her side, his arm out in offering.

Sansa took it, grateful that she could place some weight on him.

“Get a head start, Little Bird,” he said to her though she knew he was talking to the guards around her as much as he was talking to her.

Sansa nodded and allowed Sandor to pull her hood over her head before Terrynce led her at a slow but steady pace out into the snow.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa confronts someone from her past and strengthens her reslove. 5225 words.

The private hall was of a modest size. It could fit no more than fifty individuals for a meal – and those fifty would be hugging elbows together. As a result, the twenty-one men from the patrol who joined her had a little bit of breathing room. In addition to them, Sansa’s five guards were standing near her but spread out to observe the whole room. Much to Jon’s chagrin, Sansa decided not to sit on the slightly raised dais. Instead, she sat down at a central table, among the men. She intended to rule as she knew her father had: a friend to her people and not out of touch.

Sandor knew better than to argue with her decision and had handed her a slim dagger to keep next to her on the bench. He had sat himself to one side of her, close and with his own weapons loosened from their sheathes. Jon sat on her other side, mirroring the Westerman-turned-Northman. Sansa had her steward and Maester Samwell each a seat away. Ruban, the one who had served under her brother (and the one she wanted to get to know the most for selfish and personal reasons, if she were forced to admit it), sat across from her with the lanky man. They both ate stiffly, as though uncomfortable.

Sansa looked around, sighing at the sight that many of the men, most who were at her table, ate in the same manner.

“My lords?” she called out across the tables. The hall fell quiet. At least they acknowledge her status as their liege Lady, if nothing else. She stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “There are less men here than were in the stables.”

“They had families to see or women to meet, m’lady,” someone called to her, causing a round of bawdy laughter to swirl around the room.

Sansa smiled in amusement though Jon bristled at the implications. Was it because he was uncomfortable with the notion of the men seeking comfort of women? _No,_ she reasoned with herself _, Jon had known a great love before_. If not that, then Sansa figured that it was because _she_ was in the room, hearing about such… _improper_ behavior.

 _If only he knew_ , she mused. She had long since learned to not blush at the thing’s men said – even the cruder jokes could make her laugh. Sansa had been known on occasion to throw _improper_ insults back at a man when the moment called for it. _Let him think of me as his sweet innocent sister; let him keep that memory to protect him from the harsh realities of what I have faced_.

“Those who have joined me, I thank you!” she said holding up her goblet. The men cheered to her good health. While they drank, she added, “but you all eat as though you fear poison in the stew.”

Ruban swallowed a bite and then cleared his throat. “No, m’Lady. Just trying to be polite.”

“I ask again, would you eat like that if I were not here?”

Ruban shook his head slightly.

“How long were they on patrol?” Sansa asked, turning to Sandor.

“A sennight, my Lady,” he replied.

Sansa nodded, “then I presume that you are chilled to the bone and sorely hungry,” she said turning back to her men.

“Aye, m’lady,” the lanky man said.

“Then eat as you would. If I wanted to be treated differently, I would have sat in the high seat.” With that, Sansa dipped her spoon into her own stew and continued eating. It took a few heartbeats, but then the men dug in with the hunger she expected them to.

As bellies began to be filled, Ruban and the lanky man, who introduced himself as Timo, gave the majority of the report. They called over men to give the first-hand account when necessary. Maester Samwell and Steward Hawthorne scribbled at their parchments to record the notes. Jon and Sandor interrupted them frequently with specific questions that Sansa would have never considered. It was yet another reminder to her that she had much to learn.

When the men had concluded their tales with entering the western gates, Maester Samwell turned to Sansa. “My Lady, you have been quiet. Did we miss something?”

Sansa stared blankly between the men in front of her.

Jon reached out and took her hand. “Sister,” he said to get her attention.

Sansa looked to Sandor and saw the concern in his eyes; the way they closed slightly while scrutinizing her, causing small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. His lips were pressed together in a firm line. He must have seen something in her because he nodded suddenly and motioned with his good eyebrow to ask the question.

“The men that you lost,” Sansa said painfully, forcing herself to look away from the strength and security that her consort provided and towards the last known remaining man of her brothers, “did you burn their bodies?”

Silence reigned supreme in the room. Serving boys froze while pouring more mulled wine. One serving girl dropped her platter of empty dishes and ran from the hall and another bowed quickly to follow. Sandor’s hand came up on the inside of her cloak to rest on the small of her back. Jon looked at her with his mouth partially open in shock. Maester Samwell suddenly began flipping through the notes from the evening, though he was shaking his head.

Sansa understood that to mean that no mention of burning the dead had occurred. Still, she held Ruban’s gaze, challenging him to lie to her. Surely, he had heard the rumors that fluttered about Winterfell like snowflakes on the wind about what might have happened down in the crypts during the long battle. And even if he had not, he had fought in the battle himself and knew what fighting the dead was like.

Finally, Ruban nodded slowly, “aye, m’lady. Just as Lord Clegane commanded us to – like he does before each ranging that we leave on. We burned all that we could. It didn’t seem like something that we had to mention. Anyone who fought, and all of us did, knows what the dea—"

“That you could?” Sansa asked, something stirring in her chest she could not name. “You mean to tell me that you were unable to burn every man’s body who fell on this ranging?” Turning to Hawthorne she demanded, “how many men left on the patrol?”

“Fifty, my lady,” he replied quickly without hesitation.

“How many returned?” she demanded.

“We lost twelve men out there, m’lady,” Ruban answered.

“How many did you burn?” Sansa fought to keep her voice level though surely all could hear the anger, perhaps even the panic.

“Twelve, m’lady,” Timo whispered.

“Your math does not account properly!” she said, banging her fist on the table. Silverware jumped slightly and Jon’s empty goblet fell over. “Which men were left dead but unburned?!”

“M’Lady,” Ruban said mustering up his voice when no one else dared to speak. “M’Lady it was the Queen’s men who refused to let us burn their dead.”

Sansa jumped to her feet. She pressed her palms into the wood as she leaned over the table. “How many men!” Now she did allow her voice to raise. It echoed softly off the empty stone walls.

“The queen also sent fifty men on this patrol, Lady Stark,” Hawthorne said after a minute.

“How many queensmen did not return and were not burned?” she growled.

“We don’t know exactly,” Timo stuttered.

“At least twenty,” Ruban jumped in. “That’s my best guess, from comparing stories from the men.”

Sansa whipped her cloak around and made for the great hall, ignoring her ankle completely. Her guards easily kept pace with her; Afterall, they hadn’t been confined to a bed or a chamber for the last two turns of the moon. One thing was on her mind and she knew where to find her.

By the time she entered the Great Hall, it held only small groups of men drinking and playing games. Sansa paused only a moment to locate the man she had to see in absence of the silver haired queen. Lord Tyrion was so engrossed in his game of Cyvasse that he did not notice Sansa until she swept his boardgame and all its pieces off the table.

He looked up, his eyes glossed over with wine, and smiled, “Ah! Lady Sansa! I heard a rumor that you were prowling the castle today! You look as stunning as ever. Really it is a shame that we never—”

“Where is she?” Sansa demanded.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, my lady wife.”

She had her dagger, the one that Sandor had handed her before dinner, at the little man’s throat. “Call me that again, and I will not hesitate to do what I should have done when I was a prisoner.”

“Lady Stark…” Terrynce uttered in as respectful of a warning as he could.

Sansa barely had to glance around to know that there were a dozen Unsullied soldiers surrounding them, and more of the queensmen standing up, rather unsteadily, to join them. She smiled to Tyrion.

“Let your men touch me or mine and the North will not rest until every last Lannister and Targaryen is eliminated from the earth. Your dragon queen will lose to Cersei. And you will spend the rest of your life at the Wall.”

“Oh, I’ve been there,” Tyrion shrugged. “It’s really not so bad.”

“You were there as a guest of the crown,” Jon said stepping forwards, his hand on Longclaw’s hilt. “Life as a man of the Night’s Watch is much less comfortable than a guest’s life.”

If Jon were here, Sansa spared a fleeting thought as to wondering where Sandor was.

“You and all of your men have taken Guest Rights,” Jon said pointedly. “Harm anyone and you are no better than the Frey’s.”

A wild snigger came from behind a line of Unsullied. They all turned to find Arya cackling as she twirled both Needle and her dagger. “What? We all know what is done to Frey’s.”

Tyrion sighed, “your point is made, Lady Sansa. I will not call you my—” Sansa pressed the dagger harder against his skin. “—I will not call you that again. Now what is it I can help you with?”

“Where is she?” Sansa hissed.

“Who, my dear?” Tyrion wondered.

Sansa pulled her arm back to swing her blade into his neck with as much force as she could muster but a solid hand stopped her.

“Thank you, Hound,” Tyrion said, trying to compose himself. But Sansa had seen the fear in his eyes for the briefest of moments. The whites of his eyes had shown through. She had seen it and Tyrion knew that she had seen it.

“Didn’t do it for you,” Sandor growled.

“Of course,” Tyrion smiled. Then it donned on him. “I should have known back at the riots. That you were fond of our Lady Sansa here.”

Sansa easily pulled Sandor’s other dagger from his belt with her free hand and had it at Tyrion’s throat before either man knew what was happening. She heard her sister whisper, “I taught her that one!” to no one unparticular.

“I belong to no man,” she hissed. Sandor still had not let go of her arm. She knew that he could easily pull her back from the Imp so that he was out of reach. Tyrion knew that too. But her consort made no attempt to move her.

That silent threat had Tyrion swallowing hard.

“His name is Lord Clegane and you will address him appropriately,” Sansa said coldly. “Now, tell me where your Queen is.”

“You only just missed her,” Tyrion replied.

“Where did she go?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have a hard time following her.”

“Where!”

“For a ride on Drogon.”

Sansa pushed Tyrion with the handle of the knife and her fist, causing him to nearly topple off the bench. She spun around from the table while her former husband regained his balance. He brushed his fingers against his neck as if to make sure that he was going to keep on living.

When he determined that she had not cut him, Tyrion said, “as her hand, perhaps I can help with this matter that seems to have…upset you.”

Sansa raised her chin, handing back the daggers to Sandor. “For all future rangings, patrols, and hunting parties, whatever men your Queen sees fit to send will be under the command of _my_ Northmen. Is that clear?”

“I do believe you mean, _our_ Queen, Lady Stark.”

Even Sansa could hear the warning in his words. Sandor shifted closer to her. Sansa remained unphased – Afterall she had spent many a year under an unstable queen. “I will address her as such when she ceases to put my people in danger.”

“I confess,” Tyrion said, “I do not know what you are referring to. Queen Danaerys has done everything possible to protect _her_ subjects, Northmen and Southroners and Essosi alike.”

“Pray tell why her men refused to burn those who died on patrol?”

The hall was silent then. Every eye watching the Lady of the North and the Hand of the Queen.

Tyrion sat back. “Little Moth?”

An Unsullied stepped forward and slammed his closed fist across his chest in salute.

“Who was in command of the patrol that returned today?” Tyrion asked him.

“I for the loyal Queen. I do not know who for those with questionable loyalty.”

Sansa did roll her eyes then. “My men knew to burn the dead,” she said.

“We fought the war and won,” Little Moth said to her. “No need to desecrate the fallen.”

Sansa couldn’t help but laugh. “You, you think that we won?”

“Yes,” Little Moth said confidently.

“That is what my people thought eight _thousand_ years ago! We thought the Others were gone and we grew lax. We believed them to be stories from old wet nurses to scare children into behaving. Now we know otherwise. And I will not allow the same to happen a second time! Lord Tyrion,” she said turning back to the man with half a nose whose face was now very studious, “I tell you once more. All future rangings, patrols, and hunts will be led by Northmen and Spearwives who _understand_ the threat. I implore that your Queen send men to assist in the protection of _all_ living people.”

“The Queen will put in charge who she sees fit,” Tyrion said softly as though he understood that this might not be the best course of action.

“Then you will explain to her the situation and help her see that the Northerners know this land better than she or her followers ever will. We have been here since the days of the Children and the First Men after them. The North will not tolerate disdain for the lives of others. It is through the community that we survive the winter. See that your Queen understands that.”

“Yes,” Tyrion said nodding, “I will speak with her as soon as she returns.”

Sansa walked away without so much as a good evening to the Lord of Lannister. She walked out of the hall through the small private back room and down the small passageway into the small outer courtyard. Where the wind had caused her to shiver before, now it cooled her face. It reminded her that she had the right of it. The dead must be burned. Lest they come back and fight the living again.

“Sansa?”

She turned to see Jon walking towards her. She stopped pacing to allow him to catch her.

“Sansa you need to be careful with what you say in front of Dany and her men. Your words might be perceived as disloyal and perhaps even treasonous.”

“Need I be careful with what I say around you?” she wondered for the first time aloud.

“No,” he shook his head. “Just…be smart.”

“Where are you off to?” she wondered, realizing he was pulling on his thick gloves while his squire was holding out his heaviest cloak for him.

“To patrol the outer wall.”

“Shouldn’t you sleep?” she asked. He had surely been up far before when he had collected her for their tour of Winterfell. “I cannot have the Lord Commander too exhausted to do his duty.”

He gave her his half smile. “I hardly sleep since I came back. I don’t know what I am now, but I know that you are still human, and you need your rest. Shall I see you back to your chamber?”

“No,” Sansa replied. “I need a moment.”

“Good Night then, sister,” he said, kissing her cheek.

Sansa watched him walk off with his own guard on his heel.

“Sandor I’d like to visit the Godswood before I retire for the night,” she said, knowing that he was near without having to look around.

He took her arm in his and led her slowly across the fresh snow. They crossed the yard behind between the Great Keep and the Great Hall to the gate to the Godswood. One of her guards – which one, Sansa didn’t know; some other day she’d learn his name but for now, she was too tired – opened the gate. Two guards stayed on the outside. One stayed just inside. The other two followed them almost to the Heart Tree clearing when the suddenly broke off and disappeared into the trees. Sandor continued leading her to the roots of the ancient Weirwood where he helped ease her down.

Sansa sagged against the white bark, enjoying the silence around her. Only the wind that whistled through the leaves spoke. It was peaceful. It was an escape from everything she had to still tend to.

“Clegane,” a voice said startling Sansa from the brink of sleep. She opened her eyes and saw one of her guards approaching the tree with his head bowed.

“Ornolf,” Sandor replied turning his attention to the North…No, Sansa realized that this Ornolf was dressed in a motley of clothes, but they were made up mostly of Free Folk clothing. This man was a _far_ Northman.

“The immediate area is clear. Iskar is expanding his watch.”

Sandor nodded and Ornolf disappeared back into the trees.

“Where is he going?” Sansa wondered.

“Just out of sight, out conversational hearing, Little Bird,” Sandor replied.

“He never called you Lord.”

Sandor chuckled and sat on the ground at her feet. “I don’t bloody care if they call me Lord. They nearly follow orders better than any other soldier I’ve trained.” He paused for a bit then continued. “Strange people, these _Free_ Folk, as they call themselves. They refuse to kneel and won’t swear any oaths. But if you show them respect and loyalty, they’ll return it in kind.”

Sansa reached out to thread her hands through his hair. Sandor let his head fall back on her thigh. “They sound remarkably like another man I know. Do they refuse to be called _ser_ too?”

Sandor peeked one eye up at her. Though his gaze was serious his lips twitched as if he were trying to suppress a smile.

Instead of responding directly, Sandor said, “Ornolf and Iskar are two of the four wildlings in your guard.”

“Does that include the Shieldmaiden?”

“No, she’s in a category of her own.”

“I see.”

Sandor cocked his head. “Is that jealousy I hear in your voice, Little Bird?”

“Perhaps,” she murmured. Sansa leaned down and hitched up her skirts. She pulled off her boots, fur socks, and wool tights then stood. She walked to a low rock next to the black pool and sat, taking care to keep her dress from getting wet. Sansa slipped her feet into the pool and sighed.

“What are you doing?” Sandor asked her, watching her carefully.

“There’s no need to worry, love,” she whispered, letting her head fall back as she leaned back on her hands. “The hot springs feed this pool, just like what travels through the walls of the keep.”

“Some of the springs are too hot to touch.”

“Not this one,” she shook her head. “It mixes with a tiny cold spring somewhere. It’s warm enough to never freeze but not hot enough to scald the skin.”

Sandor moved to sit against a large rock next to the water. One leg stretched out behind Sansa while he dipped his ungloved hand into the water. Nodding, he asked, “why would you be jealous?”

Making small ripples by kicking her feet but never splashing, Sansa replied. “I know how you value strength. Prowess. Lethality. I’m none of those things.”

“You’re no Shieldmaiden,” Sandor agreed, and Sansa’s heart dropped. “But,” she dared not look at him, “there is no one like you, Little Bird.”

She scoffed and focused her attention even more at the blackness of the pool. Her brothers had told her, what felt like a lifetime ago, that even Hodor, the half-giant stable boy who had disappeared into the Lands of Always Winter with Bran, couldn’t touch the bottom of the pool when he jumped in. Mayhap she’d ask WonWon if _he_ could touch the bottom.

“If it’ll cheer you up, we can resume your training when you’re fully healed,” Sandor said as a peace offering.

Sansa just sighed and pulled her legs from the water and tucked them under her chin against her chest.

“Do you doubt me?” he asked suddenly.

She looked at Sandor, surprised. “No!”

“Then why this jealousy?”

“I doubt me,” she finally whispered. “My first husband wouldn’t touch me – for which I am extremely grateful. My second husband would touch me, and any other woman he could. Did you know that he has two bastards at least?”

Sandor ignored the question. “What about your third?”

Sansa crinkled her forehead, confused. “My third?”

“Or am I only a consort?”

“Sandor!” Sansa gasped, standing. Her foot slipped but Sandor caught her before she had a chance to fall into the water. He pulled her close to his chest and she took his face in her hands. “I wish you could have been my first and my last! But I never imagined that you wanted a wife!”

“I never thought a pretty little bird would want a scared dog like me.”

“You’re the only dog I want, Sandor.” Sansa leaned in and pressed her lips to his, relishing in the way he tightened his grip around her.

“Princess Fire,” a third voice said breaking the silence.

Sansa looked around and found Ornolf approaching them. She tried to control her blush, after all, these men would be around her day and night. She should not be embarrassed for kissing Sandor.

“The Hour of the Bat comes to an end and the Owl comes to take flight,” Ornolf said.

Sansa looked to Sandor for guidance. She didn’t understand.

“The guard will be changing,” Sandor explained.

“I’m safe enough here with you until the new guard arrives,” she said.

“The Castle guard,” he clarified.

“Oh.”

“Many Free Folk in the guard will come to pray before they rest,” Ornolf told her.

“I don’t want to meet with anyone else this night,” Sansa immediately said to Sandor.

He nodded before scooping her into her arms.

“Sandor I can walk!” she chastised. Ornolf picked up her boots and stockings without direction or hesitation.

“If you’ve made that ankle any worse, your Woodswitch will be unhappy with me,” he muttered under his breath. “Don’t need to be anymore cursed than I already am.”

Sansa wanted to ask him what he meant but decided she probably didn’t need or want to know. And he had the right of it, her ankle was throbbing. The hot pool had felt good but now she just wanted to lay down. It was warmer in Sandor’s arms anyways.

As they emerged from the Godswood and entered the Keep, she wanted to hide her face for having to be carried. But the faces they passed did not see her as weak or pitiful. They bowed and looked at her with devotion. Some of the women reached out for a chance to feel the fur edging on her cloak in their fingers. Those who didn’t look happy with her were not Northroners. The Unsullieds’ eyes followed her as she passed them, but their faces remained stoic, unreadable. The people of the North may be hardened by their winters, but they showed emotions too. It unsettled Sansa how she did not know if the eunuch men that the dragon queen had brough with her never felt normal emotions.

When Sandor carried her into her chamber, the maid was stoking the fire and two ewerers were pouring the last few buckets into the copper tub for a bath. A second maid placed hot stones under the mattress before leaving a tray of rolls and cheese cubes and a jug of wine on the table. Bowing and murmuring _m’lord, m’lady_ , the lot hurried from the room, closing the door gently behind them.

Sandor sat her down and took their cloaks to hang on the hook by the door. Sansa wandered, limping, to the window. She looked out and saw the change of guards on the walls, the yard fill, and a trickle of figures disappear under the canopy in the Godswood. So many people. They were all her responsibility.

A light knock on the door came and without answer, her Lady’s maid and handmaid slipped in along with Sandor’s squire. Wordlessly her maid came over to Sansa and began helping her unlace her dress. Sandor’s squire began unbuckling his armor.

“What is your name?” she asked the boy. He had to have been close to Rickon’s age.

“Bearclaw, m’lady,” he said, never looking at her in the eye.

“How long have you served Lord Clegane?”

At that, the boy did look at her. “Since Clegane took me from me sisters.”

Sansa’s eyes flashed.

“He was starving, and his eldest sister kept trying to proposition me. I offered to give him good employment instead of fucking her,” Sandor told her before she could say anything.

Sansa glared at him, silently promising a discussion for later. Instead, she schooled her features and turned to the boy. “Does Lord Clegane treat you well Bearclaw?”

“Aye,” he nodded eagerly, climbing on a stool to reach Sandor’s shoulders. “But, m’lady, he don’ like to be called m’lord.”

Sansa smiled. “No, he doesn’t. What do you call him?”

“Clegane.”

“Naturally,” she said, rolling her eyes at Sandor.

“Do you like being his squire?”

“Clegane’s no’ a knight, m’lady,” the boy corrected her easily and without realizing that his bluntness could be seen as disrespect towards her by others. Sansa knew the boy was only picking up on Sandor’s curt nature. “He teach me well enough. I don’ steal no more an’ I go to train every afternoon.”

“You’re so young!” she gasped.

“The younger they learn, the longer they live,” Sandor snorted.

“If that’s all Clegane? M’lady?” Bearclaw asked, pushing the stool into the corner. Sansa nodded and Sandor grunted. The boy half carried, half dragged Sandor’s armor and leathers into the adjacent room, disappearing for the night.

“Are you still not undressed?” Sandor asked her, walking over to the chamber pot to take a piss, wearing only his long tunic.

“I was stuffed into many layers this morning,” Sansa huffed just as she was sitting down so her handmaid could pull off her petticoat while her Lady’s Maid began brushing out the tangles in her hair caused by the wind. “ _Some_ body wanted to be sure I wasn’t cold.”

“And you still shivered in the stables!”

“In the wind!” she retorted.

“My lady!” her handmaid suddenly exclaimed. Sansa looked down at Nyla who was staring at her bare legs. “Your stockings and shoes!”

“I dipped my feet in the black pool,” she explained. “Sandor, where did Ornlof…?”

“Chair by the fire,” he said, pouring two cups of mead.

“Are you ready for your bath?” Kiren the Lady’s Maid asked.

“Yes, but I can wash myself tonight, thank you both.”

“My lady,” they both murmured, curtsying, before carrying her clothes into the room that Bearclaw had disappeared into.

“Help me up, Sandor,” she commanded gently.

Sandor took her hands and walked her to the tub. She pulled off her shift, using Sandor to balance on as she stepped into the hot water. After a moment of relaxing with her eyes closed, head tilted back, she opened one eye. Her consort was still staring down at her.

“Yes?”

“I almost thought that you were going to strip and wade into the Black Pool.”

“I almost did,” she replied. “We used to do it as children.”

“No man can see you now as I see you,” he growled.

Sansa lifted her hand from the water. When he took it, she pulled him down to her. He knelt and their noses nearly touched.

“Next time,” she whispered in his ear, her lips brushing his skin, “I’ll use my five guards to seal off the Godswood and dance around naked as my name day.”

“Aye,” he chuckled huskily, “you could do that. But you’ll need someone there to keep an eye on you.”

Sansa pulled back, raising her eyebrow. “Why Sandor! I thought that was your job?” Then she cupped some water and threw it at him. It soaked the front of his tunic and he barked out a laugh.

In one move, Sandor pulled off his tunic and stepped into the bath with her. He slid down into the water behind her, cradling her in between his thighs. Water sloshed over the sides. Sansa shrieked when he slid his arms around her stomach and pulled her close against his chest.

“You’re a Lady,” he rasped in her ear causing shivers to run down her spine. “You’re supposed to have servants and attendants wash your hair and body for you. But you sent them away. So, it becomes my job then.”

“Oh?” she managed, finding breathing difficult.

“One that will be fulfilled most dutifully and with great pride.”

“Have you ever washed a woman before?” she wondered as he began to rub circles into her belly.

“Who do you think helped your Woodswitch when you didn’t wake from your shaking spells?”

Sansa turned around in the tub. “I haven’t given it much thought. I figure though, it must have been a maid or her granddaughter.”

“Sometimes her granddaughter helped,” Sandor said, cupping water and raining down on her head. “But I was there every time.”

“You didn’t ha—”

“I know, Little Bird,” he said lathering soap into her hair. “I promised you wouldn’t be alone. That I’d be here. Well, here I am. Now hush and let me run my hands all over you.”

She slipped her legs around his hips so that she could lay back in the water. Sandor growled like a wolf as he leaned forward and nipped at her collar bone. Sansa managed to chuckle as she closed her eyes, loving the feel of his fingers through her hair. Her one thought was that she could handle whatever she needed to outside – the wars and the famine and the winter – as long as she had this inside.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As her recovery continues, Sansa begins to look towards the future. 4716 words.

With each day, Sansa’s health improved. It took five days for her to tour the entirety of Winterfell. She would tire quickly, or she would be needed in the castle to check the books or deliberate on some problem or another. She suspected that Sandor or Arya had put her steward and master up to it. She would never admit it to them, but Sansa was grateful.

Day six saw Sandor leading her around the outer wall. It was just the two of them…and her five guards. The men on the wall bowed upon seeing her and some even knelt at her feet to kiss the hem of her skirts or her gloved hands. Sansa accepted them all, much to Sandor’s annoyance. He understood, she knew, or at the least he understood that this was how things were done in the North, in Winterfell, how _she_ conducted her home, but he was also protective. He almost outright told her no when she stopped to speak with a company of Queen Daenerys’ freed men.

“While they are in _my_ home,” Sansa hissed under her breath to him, “they are under my protection. And they will get my courtesies too.”

Sandor scowled and remained nearly at her hip but said no more on the matter.

Some from the foreign troops told her of their homes in Essos while others complained to her of the cold that they had never felt before. She gave an open ear and sympathy where it was due. And soon she continued on.

Arya was sitting on a crate past the next watch tower. She clapped as Sansa and her guard approached. “Joining us for a watch, dear sister?” she laughed.

“You mock,” Sansa replied and accepted a soldier’s offer of a bladder of hot cider, “but you must not remember how Father himself walked the walls with the men every so often.”

“Oh, I remember,” Arya replied, taking the bladder from Sansa. “I just didn’t expect you to try to do everything that Father did.”

“Why wouldn’t I? I am the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Exactly, a _Lady_.”

Sansa bristled and was about to rebuke her sister but was interrupted.

“You should know she’s not always a lady,” Sandor muttered under his breath as he looked off into the distance over Wintertown.

“You mean!” Arya’s mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. “She actually lets you!” Then she shuddered. “No, I’ve seen your pecker! …and I don’t want to know anything more! Surely, I’ll have nightmares tonight! Fine!” she exclaimed, “a Lady can do whatever she wishes! I yield! Just never speak of … _that_ again!”

Sansa just rolled her eyes, turning to face her lands farther than the eye could see. Since she had declared in no uncertain terms, that Sandor would and could do as he pleases, and that their relationship could not be prevented or reversed, Arya had made it her mission to make inappropriate comments to Sansa when she could. Sansa had accepted that this was Arya’s way of coming to terms with their relationship.

_Sansa was sitting closest to the fire in her chamber. Thick furs covered her legs, and a wool and fur shawl covered her shoulders. A log split and spit sparks at her, causing her to jump. She turned to the door, looking expectant._

_“He’s not back yet,” Arya told her from the chair across from her. Arya was reading an old book whose spine had long been eaten by mice and other creatures that had inhabited the Library at Winterfell while no humans had._

_“I thought I heard the door,” Sansa replied straightening her head._

_“You’ll know when he’s back,” her sister promised. “The door will bounce open with force and noise, and he’ll track mud and snow in here without thought.”_

_“He wouldn’t do that.” Sansa huffed. “He’s clean and well groomed. He appreciates tidiness as any gentleman does.”_

_“But this man’s first thoughts are not taking his boots off by the door. It’s making sure that his—”_

_“Little Bird?” Sandor’s low voice boomed as he knocked once and opened it without waiting for a reply._

_“Told you so,” Arya said to Sansa. Louder she said, “she’s over here by the fire waiting for you, you ugly brute.”_

_Sansa watched him come into the glow of the fire. His hair was wet and sticking to his beard. He was pulling off his cape as he walked, tossing it to a boy who struggled to keep stride with Sandor. His breeches were muddy and sure enough, he was tracking mud across the stone floor. He pulled off his gloves as he knelt before her._

_“Little Bird,” he breathed, pulling her hands to his lips, kissing her fingers. “The hour is late.”_

_“When the rider came, saying that the company you took was less than a day’s ride from the castle, I’ve been anxious to see you all day,” Sansa answered, running her knuckles along his dirty and blood-spattered cheek bone. “The ride said that the company had injured men, and that some had died. I could not sleep. I had to know if you would return.”_

_“Of course, I’d return.”_

_“I told you so!” Arya half sang from behind her pages._

_“But the blood…”_

_“Not mine, Little bird. At least, not on my face.”_

_“Are you hurt? Where did you get hurt? Arya, grab Nonda and Berla! Maester Samwell too!” Sansa said to her sister, suddenly frantic. When Arya only looked up from her book, Sansa felt all blood drain from her face. “I know you hate him!” she screamed. “I know you wish he had died! But I love him! Go get help! Please!”_

_Arya sat her book down and stood. “Hound,” she said. “Take off your shirt.”_

_“Arya!” Sansa nearly wailed, but Sandor was doing as Arya told him to._

_The wet layers were dropped on the floor, then dryer ones on top, and finally his tunic that was red in places. Arya placed a hand on his shoulder and turned him partially around. On Sandor’s side was a wound oozing blood._

_The bottom of Sansa’s heart dropped, and she couldn’t stop the tears. “My Sandor…”_

_Arya leaned in close and poked around the slice. “It’s not deep. And this blood is quite fresh. Did you reopen if on the way home?” she asked._

_“Probably. I rode hard the last three or four leagues. I rode ahead of the rest of the company. Was hardly bleeding when I got it.”_

_“See Sansa? He’s fine. No need for the Woodswitch.” Arya said turning to her sister. “Oh great. You made her cry, Hound.”_

_Sandor looked up from examining his own side and dropped his arm. He made to sit next to her, but Arya stopped him._

_“Shed the muddy and bloody clothes before you sit.”_

_“Fuck the cushions,” Sandor said._

_“She’s crying over a large scratch now, but when she pulls herself together and sees blood, mud, and the Gods know what else, your Little Bird will put you outside where you belong.”_

_“Fine,” he reluctantly agreed, standing._

_Sansa followed him with sad eyes. Careful of the cushions, he leaned over and pressed his forehead to hers. “This old dog needs a bath and then he’ll be back,” he promised._

_Sansa blinked rapidly, swallowing a few times then shook her head. She said, “No, don’t go far. A bath was drawn up for me, but I couldn’t, not until I knew you were warm and safe. Go use it. The water should be warm still.”_

_“Aye,” he whispered and walked around the dressing screen. The boy following him picked up the clothes as he dropped them and then disappeared._

_Arya took up her seat again. Though she opened her book, she did not restart her reading. She watched Sansa, who kept glancing at the screen behind Arya. Finally, she had to ask._

_“It’s not a bad wound?”_

_“I wouldn’t even call it a wound,” Arya replied. “It’s not very deep and it’s fairly fresh. If it makes you feel better, I can stitch him up for you. But that’s a little extreme.”_

_“Since when can you do stitches?” Sansa gasped._

_“Since I taught her how,” Sandor replied, coming around the screen. He was toweling off his skin._

_“Could you at_ least _put trousers on?” Arya snapped, pretending to gag._

_“This is my chamber, Wolf Bitch, I’ll walk around how I see fit.”_

_“At least in the Riverlands it was too cold and too dangerous for you to walk around naked. But if you don’t partially dress, you’ll likely scandalize my sister.”_

_“How come you’re allowed to have seen him naked, but he’s not allowed to be undressed in my presence?” Sansa wondered. “After all, I have chosen him to be my, my, my companion!”_

_“Have you fucked yet?” Arya asked her._

_Sansa’s cheeks burned as she turned as red as newborn skin in King’s Landing. Straightening, she said, “no, not yet. But—”_

_“Stuff it,” Sandor barked at Arya. “Do you deem me clean enough to sit?”_

_“If you insist,” Arya said, rolling her eyes. As he sat, Arya remarked, “I am surprised at you Hound. After everything you said to me when you were dying, the first go around that is, I would have thought for sure that in the past weeks that you’ve been sharing a bed with my sister, that you would have done what you wanted to do for so long.”_

_“What are you talking about?” Sansa wondered, lifting her furs to share with Sandor._

_“Ask your_ consort _,” she replied._

_“Sandor?”_

_Sandor’s brow was furled as he thought back, his eyes unfocused on the stones in front of the hearth. Finally, he shook his head. “I know I must have said many things when I was dying. The Brothers on the Quiet Isle told me that much and more. But I don’t remember what I said to you. Just remember you robbing me and riding off on your horse, leaving me to die in pain.”_

_Sansa looked to her sister expectantly._

_Arya swallowed. As though feeling Sansa’s insistence through her gaze alone, Arya began. “I’m sure I’ve alluded to it before. We ran into some of the Mountain’s men at an Inn. Of course, they recognized the Hound. They thought I was just some boy or the Hound’s squire, but other than that they didn’t pay much attention to me. It was there that your consort began his suicidal killing spree.”_

_“Why?” Sansa whispered._

_“I hated him for it at the time. I still do, but I now accept that he has changed. The Mountain’s men gave us word of news from the capital. Joffrey was dead, killed by the Imp and his Lady wife, the Daughter of Winterfell. But you transformed into a wolf with bat wings and escaped from your tower and punishment. At first, I thought the Hound lost his mind with word that you had disappeared. But as his wounds festered and his ramblings less guarded, he implied that he wished he hadn’t left you a maid for the Imp. When I was robbing him blind, he was blubbering about how he wished he had fucked you bloody when he had the chance.”_

_Sandor had grown very still next to Sansa. His arms were tense, and he wouldn’t look at her. But Arya continued her tale, despite Sandor’s uncomfortableness._

_“It was not until I saw the two of you riding into Winterfell on a half-starved black war horse, that I first thought that perhaps the Hound had told me a lie. Perhaps he knew he was dying and was airing his regrets, but in a way that would force me to give him the gift of mercy.”_

_“But you didn’t,” Sansa breathed, “you didn’t kill him.”_

_“No, I wanted to,” Arya replied, “for a long time, I wanted to. When I had that opportunity though, it was no longer my place to kill him. And if he suffered in the meantime, well,” Arya shrugged and grinned, “our travels in the Riverlands were no walk in the park so I figured it was a little payback.”_

_Silence fell when no one said anything more. Arya turned back to her book. Sansa sat thinking about what she had been told, what Sandor had said…_

_“Little Bird,” he finally rasped, turning to her._

_Sansa grabbed his cheeks between her hands and shook him as much as her infirmed body would allow her to. “You were sick with fever. Your wounds were infected. You were dying. I see your scar on your leg, even now, and I cannot imagine the sort of pain that you were in. I do not hold your words against you because I know you, Sandor Clegane. I’ve seen the man that you are ever since that night at the Tourney of the Hand. I know that you never would have done such acts of violence towards me, or towards another woman.”_

_“But—”_

_“If you_ were _capable of such things,” Sansa plowed on, disallowing him the attempt to counter her argument, “there have been plenty of nights and days when you could have taken what you want. There were many times where you were ordered to follow me and escort me to this place and that. There were many times I ran into you when you were off-duty and no one else was around. And when you found me, just south of the Neck, you became my sole companion. There were weeks when we didn’t see another person. And never once did you act anything less than an honorable man. Even now, these past weeks when you have shared my bed! You’ve seen me in all sorts of stages of undress, and still, you do not take what I know you want. You, Sandor Clegane, are forgiven for all you’ve said while drunk or dying. And when I am well enough, you shall have—”_

“Little Bird,” he whispered, his voice pulling her back to the outer wall. Louder he said, “Lady Sansa, have you seen something?”

Sansa licked her lips to give her a moment to finish pulling herself back from…wherever it is that she had gone. “No, I only got mesmerized by the snow. I wish that we can secure the North soon and I can go riding amongst my people.”

The soldiers around her whooped and hollered their agreement, but slowly they went on their way to complete their tasks. Sansa turned around and saw her sister leaving with them.

“Arya!” she called.

Arya turned back. When Sansa said nothing, more Arya came to stand at her side. _This is how it’s supposed to be_ , Sansa thought. _Me, with my sister and my lover on either side of me_.

“Little Bird, you are fading again,” Sandor told her, pulling her arm around his.

“I don’t feel feint. I feel good today.”

“Your mind wandered, and you were just about to disappear again.”

“Will you not tell me what Nonda said?” Arya demanded.

Sansa gave her sister a half smile. “I told you, she thinks I hit my head too many times in the battle.”

“And I told you,” Arya countered, “I don’t believe you.”

Sansa had no reply for her. Instead, she moved on with her questions. “Arya, you’ve been outside the walls since the battle, correct?”

“Yup. But so has Sandor. So has a lot of men. Some women too.”

“Have you been to Wintertown?’

“Yup.”

“I’ve only ridden through it on a hunt,” Sandor replied.

“Do the people come and go between Wintertown and Winterfell?”

“Some trading does happen,” Arya said. “We lost so many people in the wars that whoever is working in Winterfell has a place to live in Winterfell. There is no need to commute from Wintertown. And those in Wintertown are trying to rebuild it again.”

“How is the rebuilding going?” Sansa wondered.

“Slow. It’s hard to rebuild when they’re struggling to eat too.”

Sansa nodded.

“What are you cooking up, Little Bird?” Sandor asked her, stooping his head so he could see her underneath her hood.

“We need to build another wall for Winterfell.”

“What?” Arya said, nearly choking on her cider.

Sansa turned and began walking towards the nearest bridge that would take them to the inner wall. She kept her voice down as she spoke, forcing Arya to keep in stride with her. “Winterfell needs a third wall. One league, maybe two away from our outer wall. Half as tall perhaps. I don’t know – I haven’t thought about the details just quite yet. Wintertown _needs_ to be within the protection of Winterfell.”

“It is! No one else protects it but us!” Arya contradicted as they climbed down the stairs in one of the inner watch towers to reach the ward wall.

“Most of Wintertown was wiped out because of the war,” Sansa hissed as they entered the Armory. As they passed a squad of freed Meerenese Pit Fighters, Sansa suddenly said, “I’m feeling much better, thank you. Maester Samwell did say that there are some matters of urgence I must attend to. I told the paige that I would be along after I did my inspection of the wall.”

“What are you talking about?” Arya gaped.

“Our walls may not have ears, sweet sister,” Sansa said, nodding to her own men as she stepped out into the covered bridge that led to the Maesters Turret and Rookery. Out in the middle she paused to look over the market, covered in snow. It was hard to hear herself with the wind, so she knew that being overheard was at a minimum. “But the Queens men certainly do.”

“You’re talking about building another wall, not treason,” Arya replied.

“I don’t trust them. I don’t trust her.”

“The Little Bird has the right of it,” Sandor added just as Sansa started walking again.

She knocked on the door and Samwell opened it for her, beckoning them in. He ducked out for a moment, muttering about sending a raven to Oldtown. Sansa swept across the room to the window and kept watch while she spoke. “Jon tells me that refugees arrive every week or so. From Beyond the Wall, from the North, and from the war-torn South. At the moment we can fit them all _within_ Winterfell. But what happens when the weather begins to turn? The Barracks are no place for a family. Until we have peace, the people need to live and they need to be safe. And for future wars in the generations to come, Winterfell needs to be more protected.”

“So you want to build a third wall?” Arya repeated perching on a stool next to the low fire in the hearth.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Samwell said, returning.

“How so?” Arya wondered.

“I’ve been doing some reading…”

“What else do you do?” she muttered.

“…and I think Lady Sansa is correct in thinking about the future while improving on the lives of the present.” Samwell said, unphased by Arya’s commentary.

“How many winter’s have you seen?” he asked.

“This is my first,” Arya replied.

“My second,” Sansa said. “Though I was born in the middle of the last one, I don’t remember much.”

“Lord Clegane?”

“This is my fourth.”

“But you’ve never had a Northern Winter.”

“No.”

“Well neither have I,” Samwell chuckled. “But my point is, this Winter has been different than any other winter in the past 8,000 years. What Lady Sansa needs to do, as Warden of the North, is think about the _future_ winters that will come.”

“Exactly, that’s what we’re rebuilding Winterfell for,” Arya agreed, but Sansa knew she didn’t fully understand. Yet.

“You’re rebuilding at the moment, but not progressing the castle at all. Now, since none of you can tell me what it’s like in a normal winter, I’ve been asking around to the few old men and women left who can give me accounts of the habits of the people.”

“Maester Samwell,” Sansa said, turning to look at him. Something in her voice must have alerted Sandor because he squared his shoulders and his hand went to the pommel on his sword. “I hope you were discreet.”

“I was very careful, yes,” Samwell assured her. Sansa nodded and Sandor relaxed his hand. “The smallfolk who live alone and isolated out on their farms and crofts migrate to a few locations after the final Autumn harvest is brought in,” he explained. “Their choices are obvious: White Harbor, Karhold, Last Hearth, Hornwood, Ramsgate, Barrowton, Torrhen’s Square, Deepwood Motte, and so forth. From what I can gather, few went to the Dreadfort. Winterfell, of course, saw the largest influx of Winter People.”

“How many of those castles are still standing and manned?” Sandor asked. “Fully operational and able to accept refugees?”

“The Dreadfort is destroyed, and Last Hearth was hit particularly hard by the Others. Rangers have said that it’s empty and used now for a roof for a night or two. Everyone else is down in their numbers. Significantly. White Harbor, Karhold, and Deepwood Motte may be the only ones, other than Winterfell who can feed the refugees.”

“And the others?” Sansa wondered.

“They can take them, but many will die of starvation and exposure.”

“You want to expand Winterfell,” Arya said at last, standing at a wall with a map of Winterfell and its immediate surrounding lands. She stood with her hands clasped behind her back as she studied the map. “You want to create a winter city outside of Winterfell for any who cannot survive the winter alone in their fields and towns.”

“Exactly,” Sansa replied. “We don’t need a wall in order to have it,” she admitted, “Wintertown has never been within a wall. But what if war were to come again? What if the Others return? In eight years or 8,000 years I want to prepare for the worst, because we have already _seen_ the worst. I will do my part to ensure that what happened is not forgotten.”

“You think they will return?” Arya asked, turning to look at her sister.

Sansa shrugged and accepted the Maester’s hand in guiding her into a chair. She felt so drained when she spoke of the Others – the rare times that she did. She knew that if she lived to be as old as Old Nan had been, however old that was because no one really knew – she would never be able to shake the memories of the battle down in the crypts.

“If I don’t prepare as though they will,” Sansa finally said, “then thousands more will die. Because of me. Because I let people forget. But if I do prepare, then perhaps only hundreds will die. Or maybe no one at all.”

“What will this Winter City be like in the summer?” Arya asked.

“Probably empty,” Sansa replied.

“But because it is behind walls and so near to Winterfell, the people will not have to rebuild every Autumn and early Winter,” Samwell said. “There are those who have said that the winter towns throughout the North are pillaged and sometimes destroyed when Spring comes, and the winter people return to their homes. Every Autumn they have to rebuild. It is yet another step for survival. But if homes were to be built inside of a wall, they would be less likely to be destroyed.”

“How would you feed them all?” Sandor wondered. “How would you keep them warm? It would take enormous amounts of wood. We already follow a strict system when producing wood for Winterfell and the castle, despite the rations.”

“They’ll bring as much of their own supplies as they can,” Sansa answered. “Perhaps the women and young children and elderly could come when the Autumnal Snows arrive. They would prepare the winter house. The men and boys and girls could travel back and forth bringing supplies until the first Winter Snow.”

“You would need to give soldiers to protect from outlaws,” Arya said. “You never saw the Riverlands in Autumn.”

Sandor nodded, “the Wolf Bitch is right. And when Winter is here, they would not just have an easy time of it. They would be expected of training with sword and dagger and bow and spear – men and women, girls and boys alike. They would participate in patrols, rangings, hunts, and watches.”

“Glass houses,” Sansa said suddenly, looking to Maester Samwell behind his desk, frantically scribbling with his quill to note everything they were saying. “Maester, tomorrow we must sit with Hawthorne and decide how we will build more Glass Houses.”

“The glass will have to come from White Harbor.”

“We will find the coin,” she said confidently. “Our vegetables are coming from the Glass Houses right now. And we need more. Not only for Winterfell, but for Wintertown too, and our future winter settlements.”

Arya barked out a laugh, “what will you call this new seasonal city you are planning?”

Sansa pondered that. “Perhaps Winter’s Hold. Or Winter’s Castle. Or Winter’s Keep. We have time to figure that out. But Arya…”

“What?” she said in that tone she used to use with Septa Mordane, right before she’d bolt out the door to get out of their Lessons.

“I want you to oversee the building of the wall. That is our first priority.”

“I know nothing of building walls.”

“But you know how to lead men. And I trust you. The right architects and builders will be given to you. Along with the men and women you need to begin the work. You will be in charge of them and you will report back to Maester Samwell or myself on the progress.”

“But why me?”

“Because I don’t have to worry about you. You’ll be safe on your own and you will still be able to train the men. And, you’re a—”

“Don’t say it!”

“Stark,” Sansa said anyway.

Arya rolled her eyes.

“We must be a united front on this. Rickon and Uncle Bryndon will be sending us stone from the Vale.”

“Do you command my compliance?” she challenged.

Sansa just shook her head and smiled, “you know I won’t. Just as I know you’ll go kicking and screaming but you’ll do it anyways.”

Arya shook her head, sighing heavily. “Yeah, I’ll do it.”

“Good. Tomorrow start picking your guard to accompany you. Everyone will work, including yourself, to build the wall, but I will rest easier knowing you have some soldiers who you trust to have your back. Our Master Builder, Orwen, will begin choosing who will go.”

“When do you want us to leave?”

“In the next break of the weather,” Sansa replied.

“That could be in a fortnight or less!”

“All the more reason to make haste,” she said standing. Sandor was at her side, taking her arm again. She was still shaky from their talk of the others earlier. “Now if you excuse me, I believe that Jon has called a council meeting between himself, Queen Daenerys, and myself, and our advisors.”

“Gods,” Arya said. “Do I need to be there?”

“No, you have your task. We will dine tomorrow night together.”

“Not tonight?” Arya asked surprised. “You always complain to me after your meetings with the queen.”

“I want just a quiet night, this night. I will turn in early to start fresh in the morning.”

“You’re unwell?” Arya asked as they paused before parting; Sansa, Sandor, and her guard to the right to head to the Great Keep and Arya to the left to the Armory and Barracks.

“Quite the opposite,” Sansa insisted. “But I do not want to push myself. Today was a big day, and a good day. A good rest will make tomorrow even better.”

“As you wish,” Arya said, giving her hand a squeeze before disappearing down the hall.

As they started walking, Sandor asked, “are you unwell, Little Bird?”

“Just tired,” Sansa admitted. “I had forgotten how physically taxing it is to walk for so long in the wind on the walls.”

Sandor just nodded as her Lady’s Maid came to accept her outer cloak and gloves and run and re-braid her wind-blown hair. Sansa saw the way he watched her closely and knew that she was right to keep some things to herself.


End file.
